The world knows that something magical happens in a French kitchen, where years of tradition converge with highly cultivated appetites, a stage set for culinary excellence. And, indeed, a dinner party in France, from its creation to its consumption, resembles a dance. Each person knows her part, whether she is the prima ballerina (the hostess) or part of the corps (the diners). The dinner has been choreographed and honed over centuries, and those ancient moves spool in their very DNA. 

First, there is the aperitif, or "apero" to whet the appetite for both the meal and conversation to come. Talk is light, the champagne bubbly. The smallest nibbles are served. Just a drop of tapenade on the slimmest cracker, a tiny dish of oily black olives, a few buttery gougères. There's no need to rush or overdo the prelude. 

Eventually the group senses when it's time to move to the heart of the matter, and the guests fold their cocktail napkins and make their way to another table, set beautifully and flickering with candlelight. Dishes are produced without the slightest evidence of effort. They seem to appear out of nowhere. Platters are passed, portions served gracefully. A salad is tossed at the table. Gentlemen pour the wine to a discreet level, and it is sipped by knowing lips. 

Attention is paid to the food, but not too much. The company and conversation are the focus, the food the music that enlivens the whole dance. 

Courses are moved through slowly and talk might grow more heated. Weather, children, and vacations have been discussed, so now politics may be introduced, if the guests are willing. By the cheese course tempers have died down, and now full concentration can be paid to the food, like discussing the music after a performance. Dessert is artfully arranged: a basket of ripe fruit and a simple tart, shiny as cleaned glass. A sliveriest of slivers is requested. The diners have dined lustily, but not outrageously. They sip tiny cups of coffee and perhaps thimblefuls of a special digestif. The long meal winds down. Everyone has played their part beautifully. 

As an American lover of food, I am in awe, an appreciative member of the audience, but one who feels deeply awkward on stage herself, as a cook and as a diner; I like to think that my enthusiasm helps compensate for my awkwardness. Although I don't have centuries of culinary tradition on which to stand, I do have good cookbooks, which is how I learned to cook. Years ago I read fat cooking bibles, like the Gourmet Cookbook and How to Cook Everything, cover to cover. Shelf after shelf, I devoured even introductions and silly chapters that explain all the utensils you need and why, which is probably how I ended up acquiring three different lemon-squeezing contraptions. 

But, no matter how much I've read and how much I've cooked, I have yet to produce a meal that is as effortless, or at least as effortless-looking as that of a French cook. The strain can be felt even in the meal-planning stage. Several cookbooks are consulted, notes taken, lists made. A meal as elaborate as Thanksgiving requires its own Excel spreadsheet. If I don't follow the recipe exactly then perhaps the magic of the dish will be missed by one little teaspoon of turmeric. Who knows? (To be honest, things have gotten better over the years as I've gained kitchen confidence, but for formal occasions, I can't take any risks.)

I've had the pleasure to dine at enough French tables to know the general choreography, but there's always something that feels a bit off when I'm the one throwing the dinner party. 

The cooking has begun. Everything that could be prepared ahead of time has been prepared. Now dishes roast and steam and bubble at the last minute for maximum flavor and appropriate heat. I have everything perfectly under control. 

And then a guest wanders into the kitchen. "How's it going in here? Let me help."

What? My concentration is broken, the rhythm's now off. I feel guilty turning him away, but don't want to charge him with any major task. Chef Control Freak is at the helm. 

"Oh, good. You could stir the sauce." That seems harmless enough. 

I try not to let my mouth display my inner snarl as he adjusts the heat on the burner. 

The aperitif is served while I am still cooking. I bolt out to sip some champagne and smile at the conversation and then sprint back to the kitchen to slam pots around. The hors d'oeuvres are good, too good and too plentiful. With my overflowing baskets and platters, I am unintentionally murdering my guests' appetites. They follow protocol, eating what they are served. The saucisson is cut into huge chunks rather than slivers. Thick slices of toasted bread, rubbed with garlic, are being dabbed in olive oil. I can't stop it. It's too late. 

Meanwhile, glasses are being topped off with abandon. Martinis, as well as champagne, have been offered, and so not only are my guests getting full, they are getting drunk. Polite conversation is already veering into dangerous territory. While slathering a radish with salted butter, one guest brings up socialism. Things are going downhill fast. 

The appetizer was anything but a tease, and I can see that the guests would be happier continuing to drink and munch just as they are, but the gargantuan main course must be served. I toss the salad at the table and leaves of dressed lettuce fly out of the bowl onto the tablecloth. 

Because my guests are sensitive, they can clearly see that toil has gone into this meal, not least because of its sheer volume. I can feed the entire block with just the mashed potatoes. And, so instead of being the elegant background music to the conversation, the feast becomes the centerpiece. The diners can't help but notice my expectant face, which wants to shout, "HOW DOES IT TASTE!?" So they deliver positive, drunken feedback, and I can relax a little, until one guest says, "Oh, how interesting to serve green beans at this time of year." Goddamn those out-of-season green beans! 

I don't offer three selections of cheese, I offer nine. The guests do their best considering their dampened appetites, but some look stricken as I announce dessert, which is done to the same extravagant, Jupiterian level as the rest of the meal. Instead of one simple tart, there's a tart, a cake, and a pie. And ice cream if you prefer. Oh, and also some warm cookies. They are overcome by choice. It's like a European, who is used to shopping at a tiny local greengrocer, is now standing immobilized in Walmart. One guest demurs and sits silently in a digestive stupor. Another, tipsily game, takes a slice of everything, and I ignore the conversation to hear what he has to say about the cheesecake. 

Clearly this is a meal cooked by someone whose favorite dish growing up was something called the big-as-yo-face burrito. At the end of the meal, which lacked finesse and balance, and was somewhat out of season, I look around, and to my surprise everyone seems happy and satisfied. It was over-the-top, zany even. So, maybe my dance de cuisine is not the graceful movement that I aspire to; perhaps it's more like a circus, loud, overwhelming and hopefully entertaining.

Even without its second identity, South Kensington would be one of my favorite neighborhoods in London. It's packed with charming streets, quaint boutiques and popular museums. Although it's not the first place a tourist might think to visit, it's actually a perfect spot to begin a tour of London, as it abuts Kensington to the west, Hyde Park to the north, Knightsbridge to the east, and Chelsea to the south. And like many great London neighborhoods, it can feel like a small town within the big city. 

The heart of South Kensington is its eponymous Tube stop, which serves the  Piccadily, District and Circle lines. As soon as you exit the station, you'll be in a bustling thicket of cafes and restaurants under colorful awnings in a pedestrian zone. 

Even on the most dismal of days, outdoor seating will have been set up. It's a defiant gesture, full of hope—a sunny day seems less out of reach when you're sipping a cappuccino outside. (Conveniently, Londoners are impervious to drizzle. Tourists will be wearing ponchos and galoshes while the local population glides by in smart leather shoes and the simple trench. The rain hits them differently, perhaps out of respect for their longstanding tolerance.) June might be rainy and mild, but the good news is, you can find the exact same weather in January, and those cafe tables and chairs will be out at both times of year, standing proud. 

From there, you could walk up Exhibition Road and see the looming giants of museums: to your left, the Natural History Museum, often with a long, snaky line full of families; and to the right, the Victoria and Albert Museum, whose floors overflow with design artifacts and art; and just up the road a bit, the Science Museum. You could plan your attack over a strong coffee and a buttery muffin at Muriel's Kitchen. 

As you walk around South Kensington, you quickly begin to notice something unusual. More people are speaking French than English. On the sidewalk, a group of French teenagers, posing darkly, smoking, blocks the way. Chatting French mothers push a phalanx of strollers to pick up their other children, who are clad in adorable matching uniforms. A French flag whips about in the breeze. 

You're in Little Paris. 

Many of London's 100,000 French expatriates have made South Kensington their home. And, because the French took root here, their brasseries, bakeries and bookshops followed, to everyone's benefit. Within a quarter-mile radius you can find the French consulate, French Institute, and the French high school. So, naturally you will find a Cave à Fromage across the street, which offers regular cheese tasting nights. It also serves a sandwich to rival any found across the Channel. A perfect baguette, crisp and then fluffy within, is layered with brie, bresaola, arugula and a touch of olive oil. 

After you've enjoyed some authentic, stinky cheese and sauntered down the wet cobblestone of South Kensington (making sure to avoid any sullen teenagers), you could finally venture out to more famous sites like Buckingham Palace or Westminster Abbey. But, it is raining after all. Maybe you'll stay for awhile and take in a movie at the Ciné Lumière. History can wait. You've got Little Paris in London to explore. 

Never will I have to bungee jump, white water raft, spelunk, or attempt anything else remotely daredevilish. I have nothing to prove. You see, I once went skydiving, and that single afternoon with that solitary jump has given me a life-time free pass to avoid all extreme sports (or just regular old sports, if I find them too scary or potentially embarrassing). 

I know a great rock to climb! Do you want to go?
No. 
Why?! Are you scared? 
Irrelevant. I once went skydiving. 

We can take a helicopter to see the Grand Canyon! It's amazing. Let's go!
No.
Why not? You're missing out. 
Irrelevant. I once strapped myself to another person and jumped out of a plane. 

I realize that there are people who actually skydive as part of their occupation or, even more inexplicably, for recreation. Kudos to them. The world is truly a better place for having them in it, and I am in awe of their steely nerves. For me, the experience was the ultimate test to prove that my body, which had always felt naturally opposed to death-defying leisure, was indeed more sensitive than the average body, or at least that my nervous system was. 

Just try it! You'll like it! 
No, that's what they said about skydiving. 

I would like to blame my friends for dragging me on that excursion, but I only have myself, and beer, to blame. Five of us had gathered on a Friday evening, a drinking game was played, and tipsy plans were hatched. At the end of the night, we had made a very fuzzy, tentative commitment to go skydiving as a group. I had, apparently, enthusiastically signed up. But, I hadn't expected my friend to call me the next morning and explain excitedly that he'd booked a day of skydiving for us the following day. Immediately, while still holding the phone, I could feel a slithery, icy fear run down throat and pool in my stomach. Of course, then, I didn't have the conviction that I have now. I didn't know without a doubt that my preferred speed for traveling through open space is 4.0 mph, ideally with my feet on a sidewalk. Although, I had suspected it. 

Over the years, my friends had pointed out that I was, when it came to a certain kind of fun, kind of a drag. No fun at state fairs. Pointless at theme parks. I thought, perhaps this fear thing was just that, a thing, like an object in the road that I could step over. It felt physical, manifesting as a lump in my throat, a sharp stick in my diaphragm, so maybe if I just chose to bypass them, I would find that there really was something worthwhile on the other side. Mind over matter, right? (Later, this ability to ignore blaring physical panic would prove useful for public speaking.) Maybe I really had been missing out on all the fun.

My big question was, do other people feel the same fear and are simply able to overcome it? Or, does my body manifest more terror than average?

I would find my answer soon enough. 

My friend scooped us up in a borrowed minivan for the hour-long drive to our testing ground. Everyone was in good spirits. The stifling dread was still present, but I was already practicing just going about my business while it was busy working away on my insides—butterflies, more like sharp-beaked raptors, thrashed around in my gut. This was going to be the ultimate experiment, and maybe I was stronger than I thought. Perhaps this experience would obliterate anxiety, and at the end of it, I would be… someone who could like surfing, for example.

We would be falling through a perfectly blue Texas summer sky.  We had signed up for tandem jumping, in which we would be attached to a more seasoned skydiver who was responsible for all the important stuff, like pulling the ripcord to our parachutes. This obviously seemed like a safer option than going it alone. The skydiving center stood on a basic airfield amidst miles of flat landscape. We were the only group of amateurs that afternoon, which was a good thing, because one of their two small planes was out for maintenance, so we would be going up one by one. It was going to be a long day.

The instructors, all men, were intimidatingly serene and reminded me of less attractive versions of Patrick Swayze in Point Break: rugged, bleached and scruffy, with a patina of dirt and danger. Their faces looked like they spent a lot of time at the mercy of high velocity. In a big, empty room they showed us how we would be crouched in the seatless airplane and how to properly position our bodies as soon as we were in the air; ideally, we would resemble excited babies on our tummies, stretching out arms and legs. No one should look like a cowering, compressed ball when being emptied into the ether. In other words, ignore your instincts. 

We were issued our jump suits, and as soon as I zipped it up and looked in the mirror I knew I had made a huge mistake. For I already looked like a big baby in an oversized nylon onesie. We had straps that we had to tighten at the very top of each leg and around our waists so that, over my jumpsuit, it looked like I was wearing a giant, black jockstrap.  
 
I walked out to greet my friends expecting to get a good laugh at how funny we all looked, but for some reason, they looked pretty cool, especially my friend D., the only other girl in our group, who looked like a svelte model getting ready to shoot an advertisement for space suits. 

Since we had to go up individually, I of course volunteered to go last, and that made the wait even more excruciating. D. was the first to go, and the rest of us sat on a wooden park bench outside the base waiting for her to appear in the sky. We first watched her climb into the small plane with her tandem partner and a few other divers who were jumping alone and then take off. When she finally appeared in the sky, we leapt up and ran toward the area where she was going to land, which she did gracefully, giving a little jog at the end along with her partner, and then she shouted, "That was amazing!!" 

"All right! Congratulations!" We high-fived her and listened to her recount their jump as they unfastened themselves from various straps and hooks. 

One after the other, my friends landed out of the sky with the same light touch and shouted enthusiasm. One declared that his life was forever changed, and that he was going to be a professional skydiver. 

By that point, after the long wait, my nerves were in the same state as my over-suit jock strap, tight and painful. But, my friends' unequivocally positive experiences were helping me to psyche myself up. If they loved it, I'll love it!

"Are you ready to rock!?" My instructor asked me when it was time to file into the plane. I'll call him Bullet for the purposes of this story. Bullet was a huge, hulking, buzz-cut blond man, who looked like a descendent of Vikings, and that gave me some comfort. We climbed the tinny stairs into the plane, and I crouched in front of Bullet, who got busy attaching my straps to him. The few other divers in the plane gave me thumbs-up and I tried to smile back without looking like a wild-eyed maniac. 

It wasn't that I was afraid of dying, or rather, I wasn't afraid of the plane going down or my parachute not opening, but as we ascended sharply I was more worried about having a stress-induced heart attack. I poured sweat into my thick, itchy flight suit while enfolded in Bullet's large frame. By the time we reached the right altitude, I was merely a molten feverish skin thrown over a body hollowed out by fear. There was no voice with which to ask to turn back. I watched the individual divers crouch-hop toward the open door and hurl themselves, one by one, out of it. 

It was my turn. Bullet's bulk urged my limp body up to the doorframe. And rocked, one, two, three, out the door, out into the shrieking wall of wind outside the plane. My body was now two lungs, pumped too full, struggling against the loud air, and a mouth, trying with contortions to catch a regular breath. It felt like my lips were clamped onto a gigantic deflating balloon. And then, finally, Bullet pulled whatever cords he had to pull, the parachute opened and I felt like I was jumping over the side of building, hit with full G-force, and painfully pulled back by my giant jockstrap. 

This was the part of the skydive that most people would enjoy, soaring through space, suspended, aloft, free. Fields, and regular life, far below. Bullet passed me two handles to hold that would control our direction in the air, but I had no grip strength. So, he tried to show me some fancy maneuvers himself, where we would swoop in large circles, and I whimpered for him to stop. The cold fear had drained out of my body, and my nerves had chewed through every last drop of adrenaline at my disposal. Now I was human-goo. If someone had taken a picture of me in the final descent, they probably would have captured the drool of an unconscious person. The ground, sweet, solid, life-affirming ground was still achingly far away. 

At last, Bullet reminded me how to properly land, but I knew it was of no use, my gelatin legs weren't my own, and just as I expected, on impact I collapsed on the ground, in a pile with poor Bullet, speechless. 

I had made it back to earth. Rather than stepping over my fear, I had launched myself through it (or, at least, Bullet had). Even when it was a screaming gale force wind bursting inside, I moved forward. 

And, what was at the end of the anxiety-rainbow?

A big pot of spent adrenaline and a lifetime of justification for avoiding extreme sports. 

In all honesty, the experience did help me distinguish when it's worth leaping through fear (a job interview), and when it's wise to listen to your body's preferences. If it's digging in its heels on the way to a surfing lesson, why not just hang out on the beach, reading a good book instead? You can wave to your more adventurous friends as they're smiling on their boards and wait for them with a warm towel and a calm heart. They'll tell you their stories of big waves, and you'll cook them a fine dinner. 

We all have our strengths and passions. Mine just don't involve air masks, jumpsuits, or parachutes. 

1. The history of its sights and ceremonies.

2. Fat trees fighting wrought iron gates.

3. Cool cars for every taste to be ogled on the street.

4. Great gift shopping for a Bond villain, countess or showgirl. 

5. Expressive statues. 

6. The lights on night walks. 

7. Greenery, mostly well-manicured. (Only the fighting trees grow with abandon.)

8. Fantastic, free museums.

9. Pubs, pub-goers and pub names.

10. Bridges, whether they be beautiful, grand, or merely functional, spanning the River Thames. 

Las Terrenas, a beach town on the tip of the Samana Peninsula on the northeast coast of the Dominican Republic, is so flush with natural beauty, it would be easy to pass the entire day sitting by the ocean under a palm tree nursing a mojito. 

But, the town itself has so much personality, we'll roll up our soggy beach towels, hang up our swimsuits, say goodbye to Roy, the bartender, and roam the streets for a bit. 

Most tourists find their way to Las Terrenas from the capital, Santo Domingo, which is a two hour drive through mountains cleanly cut to make way for a new, mostly empty, highway. The road runs through green pastures, fields sectioned for rice cultivation, rushing rivers, and finally, the gorgeous pink interior of the mountains. In parts it looks like a drive through a towering, crumbly red velvet cake, one with bright green icing.

On the road, the blue ocean stretches below, but strangely, the air is full of chlorophyll and capsium rather than brine. The forest dominates the sea. If you closed your eyes you might think you were sitting in front of a plate of freshly sliced bell peppers on a just-mowed lawn. The scent is so heady it almost leaves an aftertaste. 

Out of the dense foliage, men haul large pieces of bloody meat from a cow that had been slaughtered just off the road. Or maybe the animal died of other causes and they're simply making good use of it. It's shocking to see the massive red and white slabs passing from hand to hand against the backdrop of the pristine green landscape. 

Getting closer to town, modest houses sit by small shacks that somehow stand up to the heavy tropical storms that often pass through during the night.  

Laundry hangs outside to dry. Skinny dogs bark and nip at the passing vehicle. Groups of men drink beer at an open air bar, the only structure on a vast hillside, and tinking guitar music blasts from speakers standing on the dirt floor. Then, a small flourishing hotel. Now, an abandoned one, half-complete, but now overgrown, plans tossed out mid-construction. It's a ghost of gray plaster in the weeds. 

The population of Las Terrenas is close to 11,000. There's a substantial expatriate community, mostly European, who work in tourism or real estate. There are so many French people living there, you can just as easily find steak tartar on a menu as you can more traditional Dominican fare, like grilled plantains and beef soup. There is even a French school that follows the standard national curriculum. The expats are easily identified, as they tend to be tanner, smilier and lither than their friends merely visiting from home. 

Most people, locals and tourists alike, get around on 4-wheelers and motorbikes, but you could visit Las Terrenas without a car and just hail a moto-conche when needed. Your motorcycle taxi driver will not even give you a second glance when you load up with pieces of luggage in both hands, teetering behind him on his tiny bike. 

The culture is very relaxed with its traffic laws, and it's not uncommon to see a zooming bike with a driver, two passengers carrying heavy loads, and often a baby, hanging jauntily off a mother's hip. 

There is not a helmet in sight. 

People often stop in the middle of the road to chat with a passing friend. Other drivers give perfunctory honks, but don't really mind the delay.

We see two policemen in hats and dapper uniforms standing, looking official and stern, by the side of the road. They flag down a motorcyclist. Surprised to witness a traffic violation stop, we glance back and see the two policemen hop on the back of the bike behind the driver. He revs the noisy engine and speeds past us. We thought the police were going to write a ticket. Instead, they just needed to hitch a ride. 

In the center of the village there are several bustling outdoor shopping centers, often geared towards tourists. Corner stores bulge with Havaianas, sunscreen, colorful pareos, turquoise jewelry, cigars, and rum. The European influence also results in some unusual commerce for the tropics, like a fancy cheese and wine shop. During soccer season, fans pile in beside the casks to watch big games and sample hearty reds. 

There is one main grocery store, fully stocked for Dominican and European appetites. You could pick up a bottle of rosé, a baguette and a chunk of blue cheese for a meal after your mojito if you wish. Or, you could visit any of the smaller shops selling locally grown fruits and vegetables. Fish, shrimp and even live, flailing crab can be purchased by venders holding up their slippery wares by the side of the road. 

Animals are everywhere. Dogs nap in the sun. At dusk, cats leap up to catch birds flying low for their nightly insect meal. Chickens pace in front of doorways. Lizards sprint and freeze and sprint again. It's a tropical menagerie. 

Most of the dogs look like free agents and you wonder what they are dining on to look so well-fed. Are lizards part of a balanced canine diet? 

Walking the smaller streets, beyond the typical tourist souvenir shops, we notice even more odd merchandise. There is a stand that sells only second-hand shoes, displayed in a giant white heap in the bed of a truck, and a store specializing in spandex body suits, which are especially useful in the tropical heat. There must be some crazy, air-conditioned nightlife that we don't know about. 

Around the corner we spot Roy, one of the best bartenders in town, and discover that he has a second profession. He's just come from his first shift at the bar, and now he stands alone at an open air butcher counter and explains that he owns the shop and lives with his family just behind it. From his deftness with the knife, one can see he's just as much an expert at breaking down a side of beef as he is creating the perfect cocktail. 

Las Terrenas is a small town, and even after a few days, we can start to feel local. The owner of the only pizza place, an impressive beach joint with a wood-burning oven, waves at us as he whizzes by on his 4-wheeler. Passing a French-style coffee shop we say "bonjour" to a former ski instructor from Savoie who recently purchased another beach-front restaurant called Eden. 

Every morning, just after the sun has risen, he meticulously rakes the sand in front of his restaurant. His customers will dine on razor clams and Chablis before flopping down on white lounge chairs that he's provided on his immaculate sandy lawn. Everything must be perfectly in order. He has the service-ethic of a fine French maitre-d', with a resolutely casual personal style. Just before lunch, after his midmorning swim, he scoots behind a wood pillar to whip off his swim suit and change into shorts. For a moment, a curious customer could see him standing naked next to the chalkboard specials. He takes orders shirtless, displaying his leathery-tan torso. Would you like to see the wine list? That's Las Terrenas. 

We'll circle back through town, back to the 4-wheeler whose black leather seat is roasting, even in the shade of a palm tree. Back on newly paved paths along the ocean. The fishing boats have returned and are resting on the hot sand. It's quiet except for sporatic motorcycle buzz. Evening is ahead. Time for another swim out into the shallow, clear water where we can see the shore, its white lip of sand around a wide bowl of trees and beyond, the town. Roy will be closing up shop. The Savoyard bringing a case of rosé back to the restaurant for dinner service. The cats are taking their places on sidewalks, their eyes on the sky, waiting for birds. The tourists haven't budged from the beach, just getting up to move their parasols around them like the hands of a clock, ticking the long day away, soaking up Las Terrenas.

Pros outweigh cons every time.
Or, rather, discomfort fades and beauty remains.