Greasy Coat

I don't drink. I don't smoke. I don't wear a greasy coat. As if to shame me, the line from the traditional American folk song ran through my head as I traipsed across Europe this month. I sampled Belgian beer in Bruges and Brussels. I sipped French wine in Paris. (So much for my Lenten pledges.) If I had encountered a coffee shop in Amsterdam that wasn't operated and frequented by wretched lotus-eaters, I might have even smoked. As for my coat, I'm afraid it became rather greasy as I crawled under a turnstile in a Paris subway station. Tell your ma. Tell your pa. I'm that boy from Arkansas.