Because of my job, I’m pretty well versed in the names of high-profile politicians from other countries, but I still don’t know Camille’s last name. I’m very much wondering if said politician is a man or a woman. Surely, if it were a woman, it would have caught my attention.

“There’s really no need for us French to be so snobbish about our wine, for example.” She picks up her glass again. “This one’s better than the product of many a home-grown grape.” Camille’s eyes narrow as she smiles.

I can’t make head nor tail of this woman. It’s time to go into interview mode. Start with gentle, innocent questions. Then slowly amp up the depth and breadth and find out what it is I really want to know.

“As far as praying goes, my friend Amber is the best yoga teacher I’ve ever had, if you want a crash course in that particular practice.”

“I’m leaving in a few days. I think it better to focus on the other two pillars of my journey.” The gleam of the fairy lights above us catches in her eyes, makes them sparkle with something.

“Aren’t you supposed to go to different parts of the world for each? I strongly believe Australian food is underrated, but not many people come here expecting culinary orgasms.”

Camille chuckles. “I’ve had great meals here. And encountered wonderful hospitality. I dread arriving at Charles de Gaulle airport and facing all that French grumpiness again.” She shakes her head. “But I really must stop talking in clichés, lest you get the wrong idea of my country. We have our obvious problems, but I love France.” A melancholy look crosses her face. “And I miss my children. My daughter is giving birth to her first child in two months. I’m going to be a grandmother.”

“Surely you’re not old enough for that.” I know how cheesy that sounds and take a quick sip from my wine, hoping my comment will dissolve into nothing as I drink.

Camille tilts her head as if to say, yet here I am.

Thomas arrives with our dishes. Crispy bone-marrow for Camille and a fancy chorizo stew for me.

“Ah, that’s what I’m talking about,” Camille says. She forks some of the bone marrow onto a slice of toast and tucks in. “Délicieux,” she says with her mouth half full. Once she has swallowed the bite, she says, “You must try this. It would be a crime not to.”

I watch as she prepares me a bite, takes the piece of toast in her hand, and holds it in front of my mouth. As I part my lips, the sensuality of her action sends a shiver up my spine. Maybe Caitlin was right. Maybe it has been too long. Why else would a woman feeding me a slice of bread unsettle me so much?