It was July of 1975, and I was completing my third year of historical studies in Paris. Summertime in Paris is accompanied by late sunsets and the evening sky turns into a blue-black color, perhaps best rendered in van Gogh's late paintings. This gorgeous light and the mild weather transform an enchanting city into one of romance and adventure. I was strolling leisurely along the boulevards of the Left Bank, landing in a lovely outdoor café on rue Jacob with a spectacular view of the Saint-Germain Cathedral. I did not know it then, but this café was adjacent to an important psychoanalytic bookstore. A couple arrived at the next table placed close to mine. They were quintessentially Parisian: young,