Mon nouveau petit ami
I just got back from enjoying fresh, juicy grapes in the rain on a park bench near Les Halles avec mon nouveau petit ami. Ce qui? Let’s rewind a bit.
Yesterday I spent most of the day on a choco-crawl. Quality stuff at Pierre Marcolini (he is Belgian, of course): champagne truffles, rich ganache, Earl Grey-infused chocolat noir. I am in heaven. Do you know it is the annual Salon du Chocolat here in Paris? Coincidence? I think not. I also had a picnic in le Jardin du Luxembourg: a baguette, herb-encrusted goat cheese, red grapes, clementines, and chocolate from Le Bon Marché, where I met a vineyard owner and sampled his wine. I also tried on frilly hats and scarves and made faces in the mirrors. So all pretty standard, Parisian stuff.
Later, I met up with Gregoire, the Parisian radio guy, in front of the fnac store at Place de la Bastille. We went to a local watering hole for some Belgian beers. This guy has lived in Barcelona and Dublin, so he has an interesting accent. We talked about health insurance in the US, politics, French music, and how we wanted to switch places with one another. I was tired, though, and called it an early night.
***
Today I woke up late. I still haven’t been to Montmartre, so I thought I’d swing by another chocolatier before taking le Metro north. On my way over, I got distracted by the Louvre and thought I’d pop in at Café Marly for a quick coffee to awaken the senses.
From the east, I entered the main courtyard with the I.M. Pei pyramid. Sitting by the stairs, I took in the beautiful views as the mercurial sky changed from vivid blue to grey. The sheer immensity of the museum is the reason why pictures can never do a trip justice. In spite of myself and my determination to be blue, I smiled.
I decided to play a game: name that tourist’s country! My eyes landed on one particular fellow. He looked a bit British, wearing trainers, jeans, and a zip-up jacket. He reminded me of Christian Bale: tall, fit, with brilliant bone structure. He seemed rather happy to be there and somewhat oblivious to his surroundings. He sat on one of the barriers in the courtyard not too far from me. I think we made fleeting eye contact. I looked away.
After about ten minutes, I got up and crossed the courtyard towards the pyramid and sat on one of the barriers facing the Tuileries. About two minutes later, I heard footsteps approaching and someone speaking French. I looked over, surprised to see the same guy towering before me. Had I dropped something? “Je ne parle pas français,” I said apologetically. “Parlez-vous anglais?”
“I came here to take a break from studying,” he said, “and then I saw you walk by so quickly. The colors you are wearing are so bright and cheerful compared to the drab clothes of everyone else. I wanted to introduce myself.” That sounds like a line, but let me explain what I was wearing: blue trainers, orange moleskin pants, garnet top, bright—and I do mean bright—yellow lambswool cardigan, and purple velvet gloves. It sounds clownish, but it works. He’s a student (and he’s 27-going-on-28 before anyone makes any snarky comments) here in Paris, but he grew up in Bosnia. We chatted for a bit before he asked if he could share the seat with me. I suggested we move it over to the fountain near the pyramid.
It started to rain, so we ran to a side alcove. Being of considerable height, he scaled the tall balcony quickly and then helped me up. We talked about Paris, New York, and relationships of yore. We started to make up stories for the different tourists that went by. He pointed at a fat man in a baseball cap. “Look at that guy. At one point he was young and good-looking like that couple over there. But then he got married and drank beers.” “That family is American,” I said. “This is the first time they are using their legs for more than ten minutes—and not to go to the car or the fridge or the buffet line.”
I couldn’t tell if he was just a chatty grad student wanting to practice English or if he was also a flirty Parisian. Then he made a joke that I must be a terrible kisser. “Think what you will,” I smiled. “I’m not falling for this.” He asked me to dance. The other side of the courtyard took on a brilliant, golden hue in the diminishing sunlight. I am in the most romantic city in the world, I thought. So we danced. I pointed at the video camera watching over us. “They will think that this is one lucky guy,” he said. “Here, let’s give them a bit of a show!” and he leaned in to pretend-kiss me. Eventually we weren’t pretending, and I just laughed at la vie folle of Paris: you could be looking at a statue by yourself one moment, and dancing with a stranger the next.
It started to get cold. He wanted coffee and invited me to his flat near Père Lachaise. I said no, we could go to my flat and drink and eat there. He grabbed my hand and we raced through the pedestrian traffic on the Rue de Rivoli. At one point, we had to stop at a middle lane divider to wait for passing traffic. I stood up on a ledge to look down the street; without warning, he pulled me close and kissed me dramatically in the middle of the chaos, made up of people, cars, and noise. These sweeping, public displays of affection are quite common in Paris. I see couples on bridges, under alcoves, and on doorsteps kissing passionately in the day and night. N'est-il pas romantique?
At home, I taught him how to play the piano. He is quite terrible. I had to go over and over again repeating a very simple lesson, but he concentrated hard and eventually got it. We were able to play a duet in perfect unison. “C’est bon!” I said and kissed him grandly on the cheek. We opened up the large French doors (just plain doors here, I guess) and looked down the street. Through the window across the way were three guys on a bed reading magazines. They came to their balcony and looked at us. We looked at them. “They are checking you out,” he said. “No, they are checking you out. We are in the Marais!”
So we decided to go for a walk. He took me to the old church near Les Halles. I walked on my own until he gestured for me to take his arm. “You are my girlfriend here in Paris,” he said (and again, before anyone gets any big ideas, this is just harmless fun). We went to the theater in the underground mall. He wanted to watch an American movie, but we had just missed the last show. I challenged him to a footrace through the endless corridors of the mall. We made our way to a grocery store, picked up some grapes, washed them, and sat on a park bench in the rain. We made plans to see each other tomorrow.
And I have yet to see Monmartre.
Yesterday I spent most of the day on a choco-crawl. Quality stuff at Pierre Marcolini (he is Belgian, of course): champagne truffles, rich ganache, Earl Grey-infused chocolat noir. I am in heaven. Do you know it is the annual Salon du Chocolat here in Paris? Coincidence? I think not. I also had a picnic in le Jardin du Luxembourg: a baguette, herb-encrusted goat cheese, red grapes, clementines, and chocolate from Le Bon Marché, where I met a vineyard owner and sampled his wine. I also tried on frilly hats and scarves and made faces in the mirrors. So all pretty standard, Parisian stuff.
Later, I met up with Gregoire, the Parisian radio guy, in front of the fnac store at Place de la Bastille. We went to a local watering hole for some Belgian beers. This guy has lived in Barcelona and Dublin, so he has an interesting accent. We talked about health insurance in the US, politics, French music, and how we wanted to switch places with one another. I was tired, though, and called it an early night.
***
Today I woke up late. I still haven’t been to Montmartre, so I thought I’d swing by another chocolatier before taking le Metro north. On my way over, I got distracted by the Louvre and thought I’d pop in at Café Marly for a quick coffee to awaken the senses.
From the east, I entered the main courtyard with the I.M. Pei pyramid. Sitting by the stairs, I took in the beautiful views as the mercurial sky changed from vivid blue to grey. The sheer immensity of the museum is the reason why pictures can never do a trip justice. In spite of myself and my determination to be blue, I smiled.
I decided to play a game: name that tourist’s country! My eyes landed on one particular fellow. He looked a bit British, wearing trainers, jeans, and a zip-up jacket. He reminded me of Christian Bale: tall, fit, with brilliant bone structure. He seemed rather happy to be there and somewhat oblivious to his surroundings. He sat on one of the barriers in the courtyard not too far from me. I think we made fleeting eye contact. I looked away.
After about ten minutes, I got up and crossed the courtyard towards the pyramid and sat on one of the barriers facing the Tuileries. About two minutes later, I heard footsteps approaching and someone speaking French. I looked over, surprised to see the same guy towering before me. Had I dropped something? “Je ne parle pas français,” I said apologetically. “Parlez-vous anglais?”
“I came here to take a break from studying,” he said, “and then I saw you walk by so quickly. The colors you are wearing are so bright and cheerful compared to the drab clothes of everyone else. I wanted to introduce myself.” That sounds like a line, but let me explain what I was wearing: blue trainers, orange moleskin pants, garnet top, bright—and I do mean bright—yellow lambswool cardigan, and purple velvet gloves. It sounds clownish, but it works. He’s a student (and he’s 27-going-on-28 before anyone makes any snarky comments) here in Paris, but he grew up in Bosnia. We chatted for a bit before he asked if he could share the seat with me. I suggested we move it over to the fountain near the pyramid.
It started to rain, so we ran to a side alcove. Being of considerable height, he scaled the tall balcony quickly and then helped me up. We talked about Paris, New York, and relationships of yore. We started to make up stories for the different tourists that went by. He pointed at a fat man in a baseball cap. “Look at that guy. At one point he was young and good-looking like that couple over there. But then he got married and drank beers.” “That family is American,” I said. “This is the first time they are using their legs for more than ten minutes—and not to go to the car or the fridge or the buffet line.”
I couldn’t tell if he was just a chatty grad student wanting to practice English or if he was also a flirty Parisian. Then he made a joke that I must be a terrible kisser. “Think what you will,” I smiled. “I’m not falling for this.” He asked me to dance. The other side of the courtyard took on a brilliant, golden hue in the diminishing sunlight. I am in the most romantic city in the world, I thought. So we danced. I pointed at the video camera watching over us. “They will think that this is one lucky guy,” he said. “Here, let’s give them a bit of a show!” and he leaned in to pretend-kiss me. Eventually we weren’t pretending, and I just laughed at la vie folle of Paris: you could be looking at a statue by yourself one moment, and dancing with a stranger the next.
It started to get cold. He wanted coffee and invited me to his flat near Père Lachaise. I said no, we could go to my flat and drink and eat there. He grabbed my hand and we raced through the pedestrian traffic on the Rue de Rivoli. At one point, we had to stop at a middle lane divider to wait for passing traffic. I stood up on a ledge to look down the street; without warning, he pulled me close and kissed me dramatically in the middle of the chaos, made up of people, cars, and noise. These sweeping, public displays of affection are quite common in Paris. I see couples on bridges, under alcoves, and on doorsteps kissing passionately in the day and night. N'est-il pas romantique?
At home, I taught him how to play the piano. He is quite terrible. I had to go over and over again repeating a very simple lesson, but he concentrated hard and eventually got it. We were able to play a duet in perfect unison. “C’est bon!” I said and kissed him grandly on the cheek. We opened up the large French doors (just plain doors here, I guess) and looked down the street. Through the window across the way were three guys on a bed reading magazines. They came to their balcony and looked at us. We looked at them. “They are checking you out,” he said. “No, they are checking you out. We are in the Marais!”
So we decided to go for a walk. He took me to the old church near Les Halles. I walked on my own until he gestured for me to take his arm. “You are my girlfriend here in Paris,” he said (and again, before anyone gets any big ideas, this is just harmless fun). We went to the theater in the underground mall. He wanted to watch an American movie, but we had just missed the last show. I challenged him to a footrace through the endless corridors of the mall. We made our way to a grocery store, picked up some grapes, washed them, and sat on a park bench in the rain. We made plans to see each other tomorrow.
And I have yet to see Monmartre.
posted by Robin at 5:41 PM
2 Comments:
Lovely, lovely, lovely. I am anxiously waiting for your tomorrow to unfold......
Hmm, you've been mum all week. You must be enjoying yourself.
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