Tennis writer Charles Bricker found some time - during a rain delay perhaps? - to send this quick snapshot, and helpful tip, from the French Open:

Four weeks into my European trip, one week into the French Open, three weeks before the start of Wimbledon and five weeks to go before I open the front door and Mackie and Murphy, the German shepherd terrors of the neighborhood, welcome me home with a thousand licks.

I was just thinking as I rode the No. 123 bus from Place Marcel Sembat to the tournament site this morning that one of the most important things I took on this trip was in my left pocket.

This is not a commercial for Bath and Body Works, disguised as a letter from Paris. But, hey, that’s where I bought this stuff and so naturally I’m going to give full details on where I got it as well as what it does.

It’s called “Japanese cherry blossom” and it’s an anti-bacterial moisturizing hand lotion. Heavy emphasis on “anti-bacterial.”

Let’s talk germs.

They’re everywhere, and not just in Paris. But you have to be acutely aware of them in this city because you’re not in your car, where the vast majority of lingering germs are your own. You’re on buses. You’re on the Metro. And you’re handling bread products, which are routinely handled with unprotected hands by workers in boulangeries.

I might as well begin with the bread shops, since I seem to be in one every day. I’m a croissant addict. Sure, I’ll admit it, but I’m smart enough to have weaned myself away from consuming too many croissants which are made with prodigious amounts of butter and am now taking one or two croissant nature (“kwah-sahn nah-choor”), which, as the name suggests, have very little butter, if any at all. I can’t really tell the difference. It’s like Coke and Pepsi. It’s all the same to me.

There are a growing number of upscale breaderies in this city where workers use tongs or plastic gloves in handling your food. But most boulangeries are small neighborhood shops where hygiene is some governmental nuisance. You have to swallow hard, even before taking a bite, when you shop there.

“Bonjour. Deux croissants natures, s'il vous plait.” The person behind the counter, who has just handled someone’s germ-ridden Euros is now picking up your croissants with a bare hand.

You hand over the money (1.80 Euro) and walk away wondering whether you’ll have hepatitis by evening. So far, so good though. I’m still feeling OK. But there’s a germ out there with my name on it. I know it, just waiting for me.

There are five streets that angle off Place Marcel Sembat, like spokes on a wheel. I cross two streets, the smell of fried chicken wafting out the door of the KFC, and wait for the No. 123. I’m in luck. It’s here quickly and I climb aboard, flashing my carte orange – the one-week pass to unlimited rides on the buses and trains that negotiate Paris.

No seats, of course, but that’s fine because part of the pleasure is just standing there watching the French parade. Little old ladies gingerly pick their way through the thicket of standing customers until some kind soul offers them seats. And the school children, well-behaved and happy little buggers, off to the elementary school just two stops from the tennis grounds. Friends meeting on the bus and shaking hands or kissing cheeks.

The buses rock and hang corners, so you have to get a good grip on the metal poles or overhead grips, knowing that hundreds of people have gripped the same poles or grasped the same grips.

This is where Japanese cherry blossom comes in. As soon as I’m off the bus, I squeeze a little lotion into my palms and spread it liberally on hands and face.

I know you’re out there, germs. But you’re not going to get me.