France. Morning sunlight dances across the canal water. A light breeze wafts the leaves of an oak tree, which stands next to a beech tree, which houses a singing blackbird. Nearby, a man walks into a bakery.
“Bonjour,” says the baker from behind the counter.
The baker waves an inviting hand at the cakes carefully displayed behind glass: croissants with and without chocolate; wheat, white, multigrain, and cheese bread; cakes of an assortment of colors, fillings, and sprinkles; chocolate; bonbons; fresh fruit in dainty little metal cups with charming spoons with those neat imprints of Victorian era cutlery; and some cold drinks in a tub of ice.
“Bonjour,” says the baker again.
The man sighs heavily.
“Wait!” says the baker, “Wait!”
The baker hurries around the cake display and approaches the man with open arms; the baker hugs the man and pats his back.
The man sighs heavily again.
“The coffee is free if you buy two cakes.”
“Oh, wow. That’s great. Okay, yeah, maybe I will try a cake or two, then. Just give me a minute.”
“Shh, it is okay. You don’t have to rush or make any important decision. Just relax.”
“Yeah, I am starting to. Thank you. I’m really starting to understand French culture.”
The end.