A chocolate croissant? A genuine latte? On Indian soil? Oui, merci! I create a shrine at my table made of various chocolate and flaky delights, bow my head, and commence. In my bag: a baguette and generous wedge of Brie for my new, eagerly awaiting friends. But I take my time.

Two months of turmeric and cumin can make an American mouth reminisce, and mine wanted this sweetened nostalgia, despite the fact that such delicacies rarely graze my plate in college, U.S. of A. As I dampen a chunk of croissant on my tongue I feel a smile on my shoulder. I turn to face a tanned well-dressed man, European because the scarf gives him away, French by the accent of his gestures, and I whisper "Salut." A shiver of pleasure rushes up my side as I inhabit my French voice, which is distinctly higher than my English one, and I love the way the language makes my lips purse and my throat open. It's strange to reinhabit my passion for Western Europe in India, but I welcome the change.

He is surprised to find an American that knows some French, and eagerly asks me why I dare learn such a language obsolète. He is actually Belgian, but Italian by ethnicity. Salvatore, of course. I tell him we have five minutes to have a pleasant conversation, but anything beyond that would edge from acceptably late to rude for my waiting breakfast companions. The conversation moves from cordiality to the next layer of personal ideas and dreams and perspective of our tiny wedge of the world. Feminism bubbles up sometime after poetry and travel, and I know I am doomed.

I recently made the commitment to never leave a conversation on feminism without feeling confident in my acquaintance's understanding of the often misunderstood word. I am somewhat of a missionary feminist, I realize, but am as dedicated to the explication of this word as some are to saving the lost souls that deny God's overwhelming embrace. It's quite difficult to discuss these deeply personal, sometimes painful, explanations of oppression and so on in any language, but especially one where I trip over the subjunctive and fall into the conditional, and get tangled in the genders of nouns. By the end of my croissant he has changed his opinion that "feminism is about how les femmes are better than les hommes" to "d'accord, feminism and humanism are not so different?" and I exhale and swallow the chocolate butt of the pastry. I tell him I'll practice my French if he brushes up on his Monique Wittig. He laughs; he is too lazy for that, but leaves behind a scrap of paper with his email. I make a sweaty dash on my bike to my friends, who are no doubt awaiting their sweets and an explanation, while the rickshaws swerve around me and the Brie bounces against my thigh.