The plumbing in our building in Paris had to be upgraded, and the coop president asked me to stay with Marek, the plumber, while he worked in our apartment. She didn’t trust him to be left alone. “It’s too tempting,” she said. I wondered what she thought we had that he might steal.

I did what I always do when I invite people into my house. I offered him coffee. Warm milk with two sugars. We sat at the table and sipped. And talked till our cups were empty.

Both of us had passable French. He spoke no English, I spoke no Polish. I felt with him the kind of solidarity I share with my Chinese-born greengrocer. We converse imperfectly, smiling a little as if to say, It’s kind of fun, isn’t it? Pretending we speak French?

Marek told me he’s from Poland but has lived in France for eight years. He pulled out his cell and showed me a map of the world (in Polish) and pinpointed his hometown. “You’re English?” he asked.

“American.”

“Really?” Suddenly he was fascinated. “That’s fantasic.”

“You’ve been to the U.S.?”

“No,” he said. “But I LOVE American TV.”

I asked where he lived in Paris and he told me right near Euro Disney. He has an annual pass and takes his daughter there all the time. She’s three. Did I want to see a picture? Of course. She’s adorable, holding a stuffed bear bigger than she is.

I took refuge in my office and tried to work through the jack hammer noise. Then I heard a crash and dashed toward the sound. “Qu-est ce qui se passe?” I asked. What’s going on? I was, after all, supposed to be keeping an eye on him.

The vibrations had caused one of the framed posters to fall off the wall, and Marek and I both looked toward the smashed glass.

Marek put up his hands. Grinned sheepishly. Then said the only English he seemed to know: The F word.

I don’t think he meant to say something that strong. Despite our coffee confidences, we didn’t know each other that well.

When I told this story to my teenage son, he said, “The guy’s been watching too much HBO.”

It makes me laugh to think of Marek’s view of America through television eyes. Which show does he think reflects my life? Mad Men? The Sopranos? Breaking Bad?

A couple days ago, at dinner, we went around the table, taking turns naming all the things we miss about Charlottesville. English. Our yard. The walk to school. Our vegetable garden. The Downtown Mall. Fridays After Five. WriterHouse. Friends who live so close.

Then we read the blog post I wrote before we came to Paris, “Things I Will Miss About Charlottesville.”

I don’t think it’s a coincidence that, while eating breakfast, Ella, my (just-turned-ten-year-old) daughter, watched a New York Times video about how to make Southern fried chicken.

“I’m going to make something for you,” she said, shooing me out of the kitchen. Two minutes later, she handed me a cold drink of muddled mint and sugar. “A mint julep,” I said. “I miss those, too.” We used to pick the rampant mint taking over our garden, crush it with a mortar and pestle, and serve with ice and sugar (bourbon for the adults, virgin versions for Ella). We would sit on our covered porch, tilt back our rocking chairs, and watch the magnolias open their blooms on our mammoth tree, so big it reminds me of the baobobs in The Little Prince.

Today we did the best we could to approximate that experience. Our living room windows look onto a courtyard across from a roof flower garden. We opened them wide, pulled up stools, and sipped a little bit of home.