She was lovely. And the sundae could have fed four. I decided she had cellulite. After all, the windows of every pharmacie in Paris were plastered with posters boasting the miracles of cellulite creme. I looked at her again -- a sylph.

And what was I? An envious American, who had, in a week's worth of Paris, consumed a staggering array of food containing too much fat: baskets of pain au chocolat and butter croissants, tangy round tartes au citron, chocolate macaroons and crepes -- butter and confiture, ham, cheese and egg, Nutella and banana. I had eaten these delicacies quickly, before the guilt could catch up with me, but she, she was clearly savoring every nibble, in between words and tugs from the handsome lad beside her who was, at the moment, squeezing her thigh.

"Paquet-cadeau to the left." I raised my eyebrow and looked at my husband. I had taught him the French term for “gift package” because I had begun to use it to describe women who wore extremely tight pants. Only this paquet-cadeau was male. A handsome young thing in painted-on trousers that left nothing to the imagination. Nothing.

We continued to survey the daily festival that was the Rue de Buci and watched as one alluring woman after another strolled by. They were of all ages, mostly slim. Sometimes they wore perilous heels, sometimes flats. The collegiate hipsters favored '70s-style pants that flared at the ankles and chokers that resembled tattoos. The older women preferred high heels and tight skirts. All of them had panty lines.

Why panty lines? I pondered this question as we strolled, hand in hand, past the art galleries and bookstalls that line the Seine and wandered over the Pont-Neuf toward the Marais. Why didn't they go natural or wear thongs?

Just that morning, I had seen a giant advertisement for thongs on the glass wall of a bus stop. The entire space of the ad was taken up by a model's larger-than-life, cunningly formed buttocks. She was in the delicate process of sliding on a white lace G-string. A schoolboy, jacket flapping, ran past me and slam-dunked his pastry wrapper into a garbage can, strategically placed below the exquisite derrière. "Deux points!" he shouted to his friends, never even glancing at the ad.

We began to circumnavigate the Ile de la Cité via a sun-splotched cobblestone street that edged along the Seine and ended at tourist central: Notre Dame. A gaggle of American women in the plaza clustered around a van selling souvenirs and soda. I knew they were American because of their white, marshmallow-shaped gym shoes, their tailored yet ill-fitting clothing. They were the picture of practicality, with proper straps and cases for their cameras, overstuffed fanny packs and light windbreakers. I was reminded of Pilgrims.

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