Whew, that $75 Ryanair flight was dicey! But twelve hours and some stale pretzels later, you’ve finally made it to Paris. Now that you’ve slipped out of your Fabletics leggings and into something a little more chic for your al fresco brunch, there’s only one thing missing: me, your cigarette.

I’m the perfect accessory to obscure the fact that despite your DuoLingo Premium subscription, the only thing you can ask is, “Pourquoi ce kangourou porte un justaucorps?” “Why is this Kangaroo wearing a leotard?”

Plus, we cigarettes just taste better abroad. The exact science is unclear, but it’s probably because we’re free of toxic ingredients like judgmental looks from your friends.

Look, Sarah, I know you “don’t smoke.” But vices don’t count abroad, everybody knows that. You’re just doing as the locals do. When in Rome! C’est la vie! Just do it! as all your favorite travel sayings go.

After your meal, you’re not rushing off to one of those open-top bus tours are you? No, you’re more cultured than that. You know life’s all about good food and good conversation. You work to live, not live to work like those sad saps back in the States. And you know better than to call it America. It’s always the States.

Here, you’re no longer Sarah, Accounts Payable Specialist II, you’re the posh woman of leisure you know you are. What’s your weekly Pilates and green juice for if not a little indulgence once in a while? All the walking you’ll do here will cancel it out anyway. Your dreadful American commutes—and all those, how you say? Les McNuggets?—probably do you much worse.

Oh, don’t know where to get a cigarette? Flag down any street vendor and hand them a euro. A small price to pay for a whole lot of pleasure, non? Just don’t stare too long at the stillborn babies on the packaging.

Now lean over and ask your handsome neighbor for a light. Hurry, this could be the start of your European fling! No sexual tension quite like leaning your face into an open flame. Look how he’s cupping his hand against the wind! He’s practically reaching over for a kiss.

No, Sarah, this is not the time to whip out those “Lady Marmalade” lyrics. Instead do the flirty French inhale thing you saw in that Lana Del Rey music video.

Oh, merde. Now, get it together Sarah. You’re not going to seduce anyone hacking up a lung like that. Maybe take a sip of your Aperol spritz and regroup. Oh, it looks like you accidentally ordered an Orangina.

Now take a drag like you mean it.

Oh là là, look at you now! Cigarette dangling between your fingers all sexy and sophisticated. Nothing like those USB stick-chugging beaufs back in Jersey!

Already looking up apartments for rent in the 11th arrondissement and downloading every last episode of Emily in Paris? Génial. Now you’re flagging down the vendor for another cigarette before you’ve even snuffed me out. I’m so proud of you, ma cherie. I have always repulsively admired you Americans and your excessiveness.

And yes, to echo your sentiments, Sarah, even though you’ve only been here for forty-five minutes, France did change you.