City of Light (Speed)

I met him on the Champs Elysées while fleeing the Algerian.

I took long, swift strides, New York style. I could feel a presence to my left, moving in unison with me; I turned suddenly to take him by surprise. But it was not the Algerian after all. Shocked, I lamely muttered "hey" before realizing I had just used English to address a Parisian on the most famous boulevard in the City of Light.

He spoke French to me after I had turned away, flustered. Eventually he asked parlez-vous français? when my responses failed to follow. He transitioned easily to English, and I explained that I was going nowhere in particular. He was a lifelong Parisian working as an engineer. He was interested in practicing English and asked if he could show me a place in the city. He suggested a park. I told him we wouldn't make it in time as it was almost sundown. He signaled me to follow nonetheless.

Five minutes later, all the beautiful Parisian landmarks—the Tour Eiffel, the Place de la Concorde, the Jardin des Tuileries, the well-preserved structures that looked less like government buildings and more like magnificent places of art, education, and history—were flying past us as we wove through traffic on his motorcycle. I strained to see the monuments through my helmet's limited purview as he shouted out succinct descriptions in accented English while the glowing, blurred panorama unfolded all around us. I wavered between exhilaration and mortal fear as I clutched onto him for dear life. Whenever he'd turn to point or explain something, I'd quickly reply, "Yeah, yeah, interesting! Keep your eye on the road!" At one point I shouted, "Aren't you going through red lights?" We hopped over small road dividers and made all sorts of sharp turns; we traversed the Pont Neuf; we went through gaps smaller than some New York City bathrooms. Adrenaline pumped. My hands began to sweat.

We arrived at the Jardin du Luxembourg. Having ridden a motorcycle before and suddenly regaining confidence with the motor now off, I dismounted, removed my helmet, and swaggered over to the photography exhibit. The park had just closed. We decided to go for a drink instead. He showed me a place in the 14th arrondissement that had actual houses: beautiful edifices as high as five stories with towering bookshelves and pieces of art that I glimpsed inside. I could hear low murmurs and occasional bouts of laughter from the inhabitants as we walked through the neighborhood. My boots made loud, clippety-cloppety sounds against the uneven cobblestones; he grabbed my hand to guide me through the dark maze.

We talked about work and life and love and French culture. And just as any international conversation eventually leads to the customary mocking of George Bush, we discussed the dire state of the world. Within 30 minutes, he had prepared dinner for us: fish and pasta. He revealed he had to go to the south of France the following weekend and indicated I should come. I told him I was booked for that weekend. He taught me some French phrases. I taught him the definitions for "wet blanket," "dude," a "jumping to conclusions doormat," and "whiteboard." "Tableau blanc," he murmured, adding sophistication to office supplies I had never known.

He dropped me off in the Marais (which, by the way, IS a very gay neighborhood—and I don't mean gay as in gay Paree) later in the evening, but not before making plans to have dinner Wednesday night. "I am free any and every night this week," he said matter-of-factly, in remarkable contrast to what one hears in New York. The streets were empty thanks to a football match between Paris and Marseille. We exchanged contact info and said good-bye (and before anyone does any jumping to conclusions of her own, just relax. This is just a fun, Parisian experience for me—nothing serious).

***

So the Algerian had told me about that football match over coffee at the Louvre earlier that day. Do you want to know how we met? It happened by the fountain in the Jardin des Tuileries. The weather in Paris has been spectacular: blue skies, cool breezes, sparkling sunshine. I bought a brie sandwich at the Galeries Lafayette food market and took it to the park for a mini picnic. No sooner had I sat down when a man came over speaking French to me, seeming to ask if it was okay to take the chair. "Oui," I said. We started talking; he was charismatic and entertaining. He looked very French: thin, olive skin, dark hair, and sunglasses. He was older—I guessed late 30s or early 40s—but attractive. When he invited me to have un café at the Louvre, I agreed. I hadn't had a proper coffee yet (that morning I treated myself to the famous chocolat chaud at Angelina's—it is like a melted chocolate bar in a cup) and I like meeting new people, especially in foreign settings (the previous night I met a Swiss man in the Latin Quarter while enjoying a crêpe).

Eventually he became very flirty. I did my best to indicate I wasn't going for it, but he said it was the "Parisian way." Suddenly I felt like I was in an SNL bellisima or Continental skit, or that I had just met the real-life version of Pepé Le Pew. He wanted to take me out to dinner later in the week for some couscous. I demurred and made hints that it was time for us to part ways. Besides, I wanted some peace and quiet again so I could enjoy the park and sky. It took about 20 minutes, but I finally managed to get him to walk towards Chatelet Les Halles for the football match. That is the only reason I headed towards the Champs Elysées (the opposite direction) that evening.

Appropriately, we separated at the Place de la Concorde.