I ought be careful not to wear yellow, lest strangers take me for Lance Armstrong and parade me about on their shoulders, spraying geysers of champagne into my giddy maw, shoving hot croque monsieur into my hands, lading my arms with bundles of cured meats and jars of olives, filling the basket of my bicycle with calvados and cognac, packing my pockets with pâté de foie gras, tucking granules of sel gris into my cheek, and, finally, strapping an entire Serrano ham across my back in the manner of a quiver and pushing me off in the direction of a forest, where I might do what I will with all these things and dance the night away under the stars, deliriously happy, affirmed of life and senses, with poetry in my heart, mortality comfortably at bay, the whole lot. Yes, I had better not wear yellow.
http://corneliusbear.blogspot.com/2005/11/week-without-familiar-pleasures.html