As it is, whenever someone asks how long I’ve been in France I wonder if it’s possible to literally die of shame. “I’m away a lot,” I always say. “Two and a half months a year in America, and at least two in England, sometimes more.” “Yes, but how long ago did you come to France?” “What?” “I asked, ‘How. Long. Have. You. Been. In. France?’” Then I might say, “I love chicken,” or “Big bees can be dangerous,” anything to change the subject.
