In Bari a woman apologized for her age. In Paris a man told me his age and then immediately said sorry, as though the number itself required forgiveness. He was forty nine, fluent in three languages, had lived a life full enough to fill the bookshelves I went straight for when I walked into his apartment. And he apologized. I don't understand this. I have had white hair since I was twenty one. I have wrinkles now. I wore a wrap dress in Italy that fit way too close and showed