Leaving the Louvre today, where I was signing my contract, I found myself sitting across from a pimply-faced 15 year-old who was reading Les Fleurs du Mal, Charles Baudelaire's masterwork and one of the pillars of French poetry and culture. An old woman with blue hair and yellow teeth, like a Fauvist portrait, sat down next to him and started discussing it with him. As oppressive and conservative as French culture can be, it is a beautiful thing to see how it spans generations. Could you imagine two strangers, separated by 60 years in age, on a bus in the US talking about Walt Whitman? I think not.