A perfect August day in Boston: Sun, breeze, no humidity. The banks of the Charles River were crammed with joggers, cyclists, tourists, dog-walkers, and sunbathers. As Mr. Pinault and I enjoyed a light sandwich picnic on a bench, we took horrified glances at a thonged man tanning. We giggled childishly. What is so natural in Europe seems so eccentric in America. More mirth ensued when a fully-clothed man with a cane and a fishing pole approached the thonged man, hovering over the sac of bait like a wide-mouthed bass.
