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.

Le Grand Amour (no more)

Missed Calls: 20
Text Messages: 4

So I ended it with motorbike guy. If only he knew the one thing I’ve wanted more than anything for the past year was for someone to simply hold my hand in a romantic, meaningful way. C’est tout. But of course, Team Pierre taught me a few things about what French men want. And no, I wasn't going for it.

Last night he took me to dinner at a local French restaurant in Montparnasse. I had buttered trout and he had moules frites (mainly because I was torn between the two options and he wanted me to have a bit of both). He drove me on his motorbike to the Tour Eiffel as it sparkled like fireworks on the hour mark. Then we passed the swank Georges V Hotel and the Louis Vuitton boutique. We raced down the Champs Elysées, where we first met. He wanted me to join him in the south of France for the weekend, but I declined. So he tried to make plans to see me Sunday night, but I hesitated. He dropped me off near the Hotel de Ville in the rain and we said good-bye. When I got up to the flat, I felt very depressed when I learned Melissa and Raphaël would not be able to make it for the weekend. I knew I had to confront this malaise.

So this afternoon when I received an e-mail from him confirming plans for Sunday, I wanted to be alone. I replied, saying how much I enjoyed spending time with him, but I wanted to be alone in the city. Reader, in case you believe I was unduly cruel, see for yourself the message I sent:

Dear _____,
I am in what Americans would call "a funk." As such, I am contemplating many things and am prone to a bit of depression—dare I say it? This is perhaps too much to digest in an email, especially since English is not your native language.

But long story short: I should spend the rest of my holiday sorting out my thoughts alone and enjoying the beautiful Parisian sights while I can. My friends from Belgium/London can no longer make it this weekend, so that forces me to deal with a lot of stuff before I return to New York.

Thank you so much for showing me around Paris! I had a wonderful time, and will not forget the whirlwind rides on motorbike.

Enjoy the south of France. I am jealous.
bisou-bisou,
Robin

The calls started to come almost immediately, interspersed with various email messages asking me to explain, and how he could help me find a solution, etc. I replied to his emails saying that he shouldn’t worry about me at all, and that I would be fine, and that he shouldn’t call me. I silenced my phone and headed for the Rive Gauche.

At Saint Germain-de Prés, I paused and looked at my phone and saw the twenty missed calls and texts. I texted him back telling him to relax. I got a phone call immediately. Sighing loudly, I decided to pick up the phone:

-“Robeen, what is wrong? Why you not answer your phone?”
-“Look, you have to stop calling me.”
-“I don’t understand. What did I do?”
-“Nothing. Please don’t be dramatic. I told you I need time alone. That is all. Okay?”
-“Where are you? I waited for you at your place.”
-“You—what?”
-“I went to your place and waited outside for 30 minutes.”
-“You shouldn’t have done that. Please, let’s not be ridiculous about all of this.”
-“Why you are like this? Why you ‘urt me like this?”
-“This is not about you at all. I told you I am depressed about certain things in my life and need to be alone. Do you understand?”
-“Where are you right now? I have time tonight. We should meet.”
-“I am eating chocolate right now and walking around the city. And no, we are not meeting up. Please. Just have a wonderful time on your holiday this weekend in the south of France, okay?”
-“I will not have a nice time because I will be thinking about you and I will be upset. I left work early and waited for you at your place.”
-“I didn’t ask you to do that, and you shouldn’t have done it. There is no reason to be upset. Just go on your trip and have a great time.”
-“You want me to forget about you?”
-“Yes, if it helps.”
-“Robeen, I am ‘urt. I am nothing to you? I thought you didn’t want to be a superficial girl?”
-“I don’t think I have been a superficial girl. In fact, that is why I didn’t want to do anything with you like that, you see? Now please, this call is costing me an arm and a leg. I have to go.”
-“You need to explain to me, though. I don’t understand.”
-“Can I write to you instead? I’m serious when I say I have to get off the phone.”
-“Okay, you write me then.”
-“Yes, calm down. Bye.”

So now I look over my shoulder or cringe whenever I hear a motorcycle approaching. Ah, l’amour.

Je suis une américaine à Paris

Forgive me, for I am a bit joyeur, if that is the proper term. Denis explained the different levels of inebriation here in France, and je suis joyeur! We were supposed to have dinner at Georges on top of the Centre Pompidou, but they are closed on Tuesdays, so we went to an Italian place instead. We got caught in the rain. I had too much wine.

Hier soir, I had dinner in the 10th arrondissement with Pierre, Pierre, Jerome, and Boris. The first Pierre is a veritable doppelganger for Van Gogh; he started his own business with the other Pierre but plans to be a singer once he retires. He likes Serge Lama. The other Pierre claims to look like Gauguin, but I don’t see the resemblance. Jerome is a baby-faced, piano-playing consultant and Boris works in Chicago as a stock trader, so he has an excellent American accent. He is here on holiday.

So we met on the Boulevard de Bonne Nouvelle at Merci Charly. The anti-American sentiment is alive and well here, but it is less hatred and more disparagement. So naturally we all got on quite well. I had the guys go around the table mentioning any good things about America. "Pass. I need more time to think," said Van Gogh Pierre. The others liked that Americans could get things done in contrast with the French, who are unable to create and innovate as easily. Jerome thought we did research rather well and he also likes our movies. They like how Americans tend to be more open and friendly. And both Pierres still remember a trip to Hooters and how you could get 25 wings and a bottle of Dom Perignon. Only in America. We also talked about "mad cabbage," Richmond, and vacation homes in Belgium.

After dinner, we went to Van Gogh Pierre’s flat around the corner and played pool. It was the Americans v. the French. We came out tied, 2-2. I thought the French team was cheating: according to "French rules," they had two shots after a scratch. "If it's consistent, then it's not cheating. It's a new set of rules," said Jerome. Pierre sang chansons tristes and then Jerome, an accomplished classical pianist, started playing “Let it Be.” We all sang aloud and drank champagne. Conversation flowed easily from French to English, shifting mid-sentence like fast, rearranging tiles on a train station board. I was jealous of their language skills. And suddenly, I found myself wishing I were a Frenchman. I like the sense of male companionship here based on what I have seen; it is warm, intimate, and open. There is not some great fear of homosexuality, man dating, and sharing of feelings. It is more like genuine camaraderie.

Soon the conversation turned to other French customs. I had told them about how I met several people on my trip already. They thought the motorcycle incident was bizarre, although perhaps not so because I am foreign. “You don’t meet people all the time in the city?” I asked. “I find people to be so friendly here. You don’t speak to people on the metro, for example?” They all answered “No!” in unison. “Especially on the metro,” said Boris. They said that it doesn’t matter how they are dressed; if they were to approach a Parisian girl on the street, she would be scared. Pierre said that if someone approaches you in Paris, they either want to sell you something or they want to hook up with you. “100%. There is no other possibility, unless it’s a lost tourist,” he said. He also said that if you smile at a guy in Paris, it is almost like an “invitation to sex.” Shocked, I told them that I had smiled at lots of people. “Are you viewing your last few days in a different light now?” laughed Jerome.

Pierre said he would never smile at an ugly girl in her 20s or 30s here in Paris, and Jerome said he would not smile at anyone where there might be ambiguity. So he would not smile at a man in the Marais (actually he would not smile at any man—at which point Boris asked Pierre why he kept smiling at him all evening). Pierre also said that here in Paris, it is very straightforward. You don’t talk about your job or the weather or the latest news with a girl. A guy basically goes up to a girl and says he finds her nice, etc. As in “I am a man; you are a woman.” It sounds like a rather nice system, where the men pursue the women and that is that. I could also see how that could get annoying, too. But the effete, confused lot in New York is by no means acceptable.

***

So today I went shopping at Mango, Printemps, and Galeries Lafayette again. While trying on a coat at Printemps, my phone rang. Unknown caller. Who the devil could that be? It was the Frenchman. Okay, it is rather retarded to call someone a Frenchman in Paris. It was motorbike guy. He wanted to know what I was doing and was I free? I told him I had dinner plans already, but that we were still on for tomorrow night.

I must admit, he is not my type at all, if I really have a type. I am most certainly stronger than him. He is an engineer. He is out of my age range and looks a bit strange, in a Crispin Glover sort of way. His voice rises about two octaves when he disagrees with me and wants to make a point. But he is funny and affectionate and intelligent and considerate. When I was cold, he offered me his jacket. He cooked me dinner while I rested. He put his hand on mine while driving me home on the motorcycle—which was probably quite dangerous, but inarguably pleasant. He calls and makes plans and is not shy about it. It is a nice change of pace. And actually, I don’t think any of this behavior is out of the ordinary for most parts of the world—just New York. Of course, if you extrapolate out far enough, it would end with my irritation at his inability to separate the colored garments from the whites, or something equally mundane. But while I am in Paris, it is just right. I am also supposed to meet up with this fellow Gregoire, who is a radio host here in Paris. He is going to show me around the city. Pour le demain: chocolat!

Gentle reader: I no longer feel mort.

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.

--------> Out.

I'm gay. Just kidding. But I am going to gay Paris. After working non-stop (till after 1 AM in the office last night), recovering from Hawaiian jet lag (plus too many funerals in 2005), and torrential rains flooding the pavements of the big city, I am ready for the City of Light. Weather outlook for Friday: 74 degrees and sunny. I've got all the essentials packed:

• Pen + Notebook
• Parisian chocolatier guide
• Books (as in literature)
  
• Japanese ShitBegone
  

So au revoir. In the meantime, please digg our latest story (re-digg if you aleady did; we had to reset it).

Digg it? Permission podcast

I don't know whether to be thrilled or embarrassed that almost over 1,300 people thus far have listened to Permission podcast #2. The audience continues to grow thanks to our front page spot over the weekend at digg.com. I've received delightful comments that vaguely suggest I'm "retarded" along with two death threats. Okay, I'm kidding about the death threats. But you can relax: by lack of popular demand, I am opting out of Podcast #3.

...

Whoops, I spoke too soon. I just recorded a wee part for Podcast #3. I messed up a little, but not so much as last time. Of course they refused to re-record.

This will be my last weblog entry for a while as I'm taking a leave of absence (I head for Hawaii in the morning due to another death in the family). Where I am going there is one stoplight, two restaurants, and pretty much no access to the Internet. But in exchange, I can see every star at night.

A Room with a View

My regular weekend café , where I like to write, edit, and read over a cup of tea, has finally fallen to the hipsters. Irritated and famished, I trekked deeper into the heart of the East Village. The sidewalks were teeming with greasy-haired boys in skinny jeans and checkered Vans along with girls sporting razor cuts, oversized shades, flouncey dresses over pants, and vintage shoes. Je le déteste!

And that's when it hit me: all of life's simple truths are codified in the golden oldies of the '50s and '60s. Think about it: "Breaking Up Is Hard To Do," "I Heard It Through the Grapevine," and "You Can't Hurry Love" (not the Phil Collins version). In this case, the Drifters had it right. Here's my new workspace, complete with free wi-fi and plug-in:

When this old world starts getting me down
[often]
And people are just too much for me to face
[oui oui]
I climb way up to the top of the stairs
[we have an elevator]
And all my cares just drift right into space
[well, no, I'd have to be high—and I don't mean on a roof*]
On the roof, it's peaceful as can be
[save for the alarms and honking]
And there the world below can't bother me
[but I can bother them, with projectiles]

*Or maybe I'm not giving the Drifters enough credit. Maybe this whole "on the roof" notion just paved the way for "Puff the Magic Dragon"?