ONCE, a few years ago, I was sitting outdoors at La Palette, a Paris café on rue de Seine. I was there with a French friend of mine, and it was one of those sunny, chilly Paris afternoons designed for sitting outside with a cigarette and a glass of wine, engaging in moody and intermittent conversation.
A guy sat down next to us who was dressed, even by French standards, in an absurd getup: on his feet, a pair of lime green canvas sneakers; on his body, a clingy white T-shirt and a pair of tiny, thigh-squeezing shorts; and around his neck, a thick wool scarf, wrapped to resemble an enormous blue bagel.
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