Romantic Interlude
473
His name is Nicolas. 6’3″, brown hair medium length, nice build, strong shoulders, hazel eyes that sparkle when he smiles. If found please ask him to contact, me, the tall blonde wearing the red scarf looped twice around the neck then tied in a knot. Tell him I’m the one he smiled at in Le Danton café…
I am sitting in Le Danton café, directly across from the Odéon station, licking my cappuccino’s chocolate-dusted foam off of my miniature spoon when our eyes lock. He is laughing while fiddling with a sugar cube and his dimples are, well, adorable. He smiles at me, I smile back (he’s ever so dreamy). He’s confident rather than cocky, he puts his hand on your knee when out in public at a restaurant just to let you know that he loves you, he contains a subtle wit, has a Black Lab named Billy and spends his paid vacations feeding the starving children in Africa…he is just my type.Our romantic interlude is abruptly interrupted by Laura, 15 minutes late for our 7 pm appointment, wearing a brown newspaper-boy hat that is now blocking my beautiful view. I pretend to be excited to see her but know that my chances now of realizing an actual conversion with Nicolas have seriously diminished.I fill Laura in on the hot merchandise located just behind her to her left. We debate for roughly three minutes about whether he is gay or French, and whether the shaggy haired-blonde seated across from him is his lover. Two minutes later he is declared French–with an almost perfectly straight score: not too vain, never seen Yentyl, though he enjoys cooking. I take a careful sip from my cup to avoid a foam mustache while glancing in the mirrored wall to my left to make sure that the two strands of hair that I have strategically pulled out of my hairclip in order to frame my face are in place–EW! An overwhelmingly sweet taste catches me by surprise. Sugar. Someone has put sugar in my cup. I spray the sweet, syrupy milk all over my red scarf. Milk dribbles down my chin. My entire body is tingling with nerves. Everyone in the cafe is staring at me, Nicolas too. I fiddle with my scarf, trying to shake the milk off of it. Three minutes later, rather than resuming their conversations, my company in the café continues to stare, awaiting my reaction. The headwaiter with the belly fighting the cord of the white apron tied too tight over his thick waist rushes by, dropping a pile of red napkins in my lap. I wipe my mouth and dry myself off. While the people continue to stare, I pretend not to be bothered by my little accident and look at Laura and laugh. Laura does not laugh back, which makes me look even more stupid.Out of the corner of my eye I watch Nicolas, with whom I have been avoiding eye-contact since the spill. He takes his black jacket off the back of his chair and slides out from behind the table. He pulls his jacket on over his perfectly fit gray t-shirt and blue jeans. Glancing at me, he smiles as he and his shaggy haired friend leave through the back door. He looks back at me through he window and waves shyly. I wave back, straining out of my chair to keep him in view as he disappears down the métro steps. Come back! Come back! I wait for him to re-appear but he does not.I am heart-broken. Why hadn’t he introduced himself? Asked for my phone number? Why had someone spiked my cappuccino with the white crazy powder? As Nicolas and I played the “shy eye” game across the café, Laura entertained herself by pouring three sugar packets into my cappuccino while I was not looking. I eat sugar once a week, due to the fact that I am hypoglycemic and sugar tends to have a strange effect on me. (Rarely do I consume it in front of strangers or when with someone I would hate to see me as a fool. Every week, however, I offer myself the day off, “Eat as much as you can, as fast as you can.” It is my special day: I get to eat whatever I want and as much as I want. Today was supposed to be a “sugar-free” day. I was not supposed to meet the man I am going to marry when I was under the influence. “I hate you,” I whisper to Laura, giving her a cold stare. I squint hard and direct while making a hissing sound in my throat. Now… Laura laughs. I whine to Laura about losing the man of my dreams…and I find myself suddenly depressed. Will I ever see him again? In a city with over 8 million people, probably not. But how is it that in a city of over 8 million people this is the first man that I have found attractive in a month? Ce n’est pas possible! Ce n’est pas juste!Laura agrees that lately the dateable guys have not been on the shelf. I wonder…out of season? Have they all gone to the country for the winter? Why didn’t Nicolas talk to me? In Los Angeles he would have walked right up to my table and asked me for my phone number. But then, he would have been cocky rather than confident and he wouldn’t have a Black Lab called Billy because a pet would mean too much responsibility and commitment and he surely would not receive a paid vacation let alone help feed the starving children of Africa in his free time. His name would be would be Cody, he’d have blond highlights and probably wouldn’t even know where Africa is. Laura and I pay the check and kiss goodbye. On my way home to my small studio in the 16th arrondissement, I dream of Nicolas. The métro ride…
- SUBSCRIBE
- ALREADY SUBSCRIBED?
BECOME A BONJOUR PARIS MEMBER
Gain full access to our collection of over 5,000 articles and bring the City of Light into your life. Just 60 USD per year.
Find out why you should become a member here.
Sign in
Fill in your credentials below.
His name is Nicolas. 6’3″, brown hair medium length, nice build, strong shoulders, hazel eyes that sparkle when he smiles. If found please ask him to contact, me, the tall blonde wearing the red scarf looped twice around the neck then tied in a knot. Tell him I’m the one he smiled at in Le Danton café…
I am sitting in Le Danton café, directly across from the Odéon station, licking my cappuccino’s chocolate-dusted foam off of my miniature spoon when our eyes lock. He is laughing while fiddling with a sugar cube and his dimples are, well, adorable. He smiles at me, I smile back (he’s ever so dreamy). He’s confident rather than cocky, he puts his hand on your knee when out in public at a restaurant just to let you know that he loves you, he contains a subtle wit, has a Black Lab named Billy and spends his paid vacations feeding the starving children in Africa…he is just my type.
Our romantic interlude is abruptly interrupted by Laura, 15 minutes late for our 7 pm appointment, wearing a brown newspaper-boy hat that is now blocking my beautiful view. I pretend to be excited to see her but know that my chances now of realizing an actual conversion with Nicolas have seriously diminished.
I fill Laura in on the hot merchandise located just behind her to her left. We debate for roughly three minutes about whether he is gay or French, and whether the shaggy haired-blonde seated across from him is his lover. Two minutes later he is declared French–with an almost perfectly straight score: not too vain, never seen Yentyl, though he enjoys cooking.
I take a careful sip from my cup to avoid a foam mustache while glancing in the mirrored wall to my left to make sure that the two strands of hair that I have strategically pulled out of my hairclip in order to frame my face are in place–EW! An overwhelmingly sweet taste catches me by surprise. Sugar. Someone has put sugar in my cup. I spray the sweet, syrupy milk all over my red scarf. Milk dribbles down my chin. My entire body is tingling with nerves. Everyone in the cafe is staring at me, Nicolas too. I fiddle with my scarf, trying to shake the milk off of it.
Three minutes later, rather than resuming their conversations, my company in the café continues to stare, awaiting my reaction.
The headwaiter with the belly fighting the cord of the white apron tied too tight over his thick waist rushes by, dropping a pile of red napkins in my lap. I wipe my mouth and dry myself off. While the people continue to stare, I pretend not to be bothered by my little accident and look at Laura and laugh. Laura does not laugh back, which makes me look even more stupid.
Out of the corner of my eye I watch Nicolas, with whom I have been avoiding eye-contact since the spill. He takes his black jacket off the back of his chair and slides out from behind the table. He pulls his jacket on over his perfectly fit gray t-shirt and blue jeans. Glancing at me, he smiles as he and his shaggy haired friend leave through the back door. He looks back at me through he window and waves shyly. I wave back, straining out of my chair to keep him in view as he disappears down the métro steps. Come back! Come back! I wait for him to re-appear but he does not.
I am heart-broken. Why hadn’t he introduced himself? Asked for my phone number? Why had someone spiked my cappuccino with the white crazy powder?
As Nicolas and I played the “shy eye” game across the café, Laura entertained herself by pouring three sugar packets into my cappuccino while I was not looking.
I eat sugar once a week, due to the fact that I am hypoglycemic and sugar tends to have a strange effect on me. (Rarely do I consume it in front of strangers or when with someone I would hate to see me as a fool. Every week, however, I offer myself the day off, “Eat as much as you can, as fast as you can.” It is my special day: I get to eat whatever I want and as much as I want. Today was supposed to be a “sugar-free” day. I was not supposed to meet the man I am going to marry when I was under the influence.
“I hate you,” I whisper to Laura, giving her a cold stare. I squint hard and direct while making a hissing sound in my throat. Now… Laura laughs.
I whine to Laura about losing the man of my dreams…and I find myself suddenly depressed. Will I ever see him again? In a city with over 8 million people, probably not. But how is it that in a city of over 8 million people this is the first man that I have found attractive in a month? Ce n’est pas possible! Ce n’est pas juste!
Laura agrees that lately the dateable guys have not been on the shelf. I wonder…out of season? Have they all gone to the country for the winter? Why didn’t Nicolas talk to me? In Los Angeles he would have walked right up to my table and asked me for my phone number. But then, he would have been cocky rather than confident and he wouldn’t have a Black Lab called Billy because a pet would mean too much responsibility and commitment and he surely would not receive a paid vacation let alone help feed the starving children of Africa in his free time. His name would be would be Cody, he’d have blond highlights and probably wouldn’t even know where Africa is.
Laura and I pay the check and kiss goodbye. On my way home to my small studio in the 16th arrondissement, I dream of Nicolas. The métro ride is much accelerated and the climb up my seven flights of stairs seems easy. This is because I have convinced myself that Nicolas will be waiting on the other side of the door for me with a beautiful salmon dinner.
I unlock the door to my studio and kick the rug back so that I can actually open the door. Nicolas is not there…I release a sigh of defeat. There would be no wedding for Kirsten and Nicolas.
The next week my eyes were open wide everywhere I went for Nicolas. I thought maybe just maybe I’d bump into him on my way to drop off my dry-cleaning or buy my groceries. I twice saw the tall skinny woman with the much too dark tan who has black woven shawls tied all over her body and carries a tambourine; I saw the man with the yellow baseball cap and the overstuffed blue backpack, three times. And just when I was convinced that I would never see Nicolas again…
It is Friday night and Laura and I step out of McDonald’s with our matching M&M McFlurry’s. We hurry as the short man with the large gut and the stingy black hair tied half-up with a purple hair-clip attempts to follow us after insisting on translating the entire McDonald’s menu, despite the fact that Laura is French, and each item on the menu has a picture next to it. We lose him as we disappear down the métro steps at Opera.
Laura and I follow the signs to the M8 towards the Concorde. As we round the tunnel and enter the quai, we stop suddenly, causing three people to collide behind us. He is 6’3″, brown hair, medium length, nice build, strong shoulders, hazel eyes that sparkle when he smiles–he is a Nicolas. He looks in our direction, probably to determine who caused the accident in the tunnel. He catches my eye and smiles. I start to giggle.
At this time a large thud is heard while an 18-year-old guy with dreadlocks wearing a baby-blue basketball jersey is shoved against the Selecta machine by the guy in the orange warm-up pants and the purple bandana. The guy in the bandana backs away from the machine, passes me and utters something nasty in French. Nicolas takes a step towards Laura and me and offers a comforting smile. Forgetting about the mean man in the bandana I start to giggle again. I turn my head so that Nicolas can’t see me.
The train arrives and as my luck would have it Nicolas and I are divided by two separate cars. I shove another bite of my McFluffy into my mouth. Laura consoles me and pats me on the back. But then, much to our surprise as the doors to the cars open, Nicolas defies the train divider and boards our car. Laura and I stand; I grasp the pole with my left hand, holding my McFlurry in my right. Nicolas sits in one of the blue fold-down seats next to us.
Nicolas takes out a camera and seems to be playing back some footage. He’s probably doing a documentary on the starving children in Africa. He looks up at me and smiles again. Laura starts to push me as to take the empty seat next to him, but I am frozen in place. I cannot move or speak and my smile seems to be pasted on my face. Suddenly I feel something cold and wet dripping down my right arm. My McFlurry! I had absent-mindedly crushed the container in my right hand while trying to suppress my giggles. I am helpless. I have no napkins and no tissues. I am a sticky mess. Does Nicolas notice?
Two stops later we arrive at Concorde, where Laura and I must change for the M1. Nicolas and I exchange one last smile as I step off the train. So close again! Another Nicolas lost. I am so frustrated…I am so covered in my McDonald’s M&M McFlurry. Laura hands me a tissue from her purse. I cannot believe she didn’t offer me one on the train, though Laura tends to find entertainment in my embarrassing episodes.
I am so confused. How do French girls find dates? Well, dates that aren’t crazy late-night métro riders who are caught trying to lick their earlobes. Why are only the crazy ones interested in me? Why had Nicolas smiled and then waved? This is flirting, no? Does he do this with everyone? Would he have smiled at the tall skinny woman covered in black shawls who carries the tambourine? Could it be that in both instances I was under the influence of sugar? And my perception was somewhat off?
Laura, being French, seems to understand the situation somewhat better than me. She explains that French women are very different from American woman and that they unusually put up several layers of defense so the Nicolases have to fight to get then down in order to finally get her to agree to give him her phone number. In France, guys just don’t waltz up to a girl and ask for her number because they will most likely get rejected. French girls make guys work for it.
Is Laura saying that LA girls are easy? I’m not easy. I’m desperate. There is a distinct difference.
At this moment I decide to stop my whining and begin a study on why normal dateable girls, remain Nicolas-less. I am determined to prove to myself that I can be asked out by a non-creep crazy, though Laura is doubtful. We agree that Laura and I will meet the following night at 10 pm in front of the fountain at Saint-Michel, then go to a pub where, Laura assures me, non-sleazy guys our age drink beer.
Saturday night, I wait for Laura at the fountain in front of the Saint-Michel métro station. Laura’s late and I am freezing. It is four degrees, and I left my warm coat at home to save myself the two euros it will cost at the pub to check it. I hate it when Laura makes me wait outside of the fountain by myself. The last time this happened a man in a ribbed navy blue turtleneck with cheap blond highlights in his hair approached me and told me that he wanted to do you know what to me from behind. I get restless waiting for Laura as a group of four guys in matching denim outfits leans against the street rail to my left, making kissy faces at me. Ah–Laura! I’m saved.
We walk around the corner, passing the McDonald’s, and arrive at the Longhop Pub. We make our way through the crowd of 11-year-olds being held up at the door by the two large bouncers wearing black t-shirts. Laura and I fight our way through the crowd to the bar, where we each order a Monaco, the single alcoholic beverage the same price as a soda. Laura sits on the only available stool at the edge of the bar and I lean over her while scoping out the crowd.
Laura and I play our favorite game– “Which guys are hot? And which ones would be hot if they had an Australian accent?” The results are surprisingly few. The guy about 24 standing much too close to Laura in the “I am German” t-shirt tucked into his tight denim jeans points out that we are speaking in English. Laura commends him on his insightful observation. He asks us if we’re American and then informs us that he is German.
Laura and I turn to leave the bar and venture upstairs, when we are blocked in by a very large, very hairy, very sweaty man in a pink button down shirt– that is, very unfortunately, not buttoned down–revealing a mat of curly black chest hairs. Hairy man in the pink shirt grabs me around the waist and starts freaking me from behind. Mortified, I put my hand out to Laura. She tries to pull me from his grip but he holds me to tight. I am forced to empty my almost full Monaco onto his head. Surprised by his sticky shower he lets go and Laura and I bolt for the front doors.
Laura and I end up at the McDonald’s at the end of the block. We each order the Gold menu–a Big Mac, large fries, large Coke and a cheeseburger. I beg the girl behind the counter with the long curly brown hair tied up in a pony-tail for extra ketchup. She hands me one packet.
Laura and I take are trays upstairs, relieved to be free from the scary hairy man in the pink shirt. At the top of the stairs Laura and I are hard pressed to find a seat. McDonald’s is packed, at 11 o’clock on a Saturday night. Two teenaged girls with backpacks sit together at a table by the window, sipping cafés. To their right a very fit man wearing sunglasses, a Christian Dior t-shirt, and designer jeans sits at the bar reading The Art of Happiness, written by His Holiness the Dali Lama; and three girls in their twenties, straight out of a gap commercial, sit at the circular table in the corner knitting red scarves.
Laura and I eat in silence as we watch everyone around us. I am impressed by the speed at which these girls knit. They are nearly done with their scarves when Laura and I are finished with our Gold menus. We empty our trays into the trash and stop for two caramel sundaes with nuts on the way out.
As we approach the Saint-Michel métro station we see him: 6’3″, brown hair, medium length, nice build, strong shoulders, hazel eyes that sparkle when he smiles. He is Colin Firth coming to us in Paris on December 3rd in Working Title’s new film, Love Actually. Laura and I finish our sundaes while admiring his calm, confident gaze as illustrated on the poster.
That night, as I walk up the seven flights back to my studio, alone, I think about Nicolas and wonder where he was and what he’s doing or who he’s doing and I realize that the truth is that he probably has a girlfriend, or is gay, or both. Or he’s on set filming his next movie, rather than feeding the starving children in Africa. However, it is important for me to be aware that Nicolases do exist, and that I should not lower my standards and allow scary hairy men in pink shirts to freak me in pubs.
I had seen three Nicolases in six weeks so there were bound to be more in a city containing over 8 million people. In the meantime, while I wait for my Nicolas, I will stop consuming sugar, just in case I bump into him unexpectedly; it is better to avoid making a complete fool out of myself. But for now, well, I have a date on December 3rd with Colin Firth, and the best thing about this? I can eat as much sugar as I want. I think I’ll get one of those Hagen Daaz ice-cream bars they sell in the movie theatres… I’ll make sure to bring a napkin.
Our romantic interlude is abruptly interrupted by Laura, 15 minutes late for our 7 pm appointment, wearing a brown newspaper-boy hat that is now blocking my beautiful view. I pretend to be excited to see her but know that my chances now of realizing an actual conversion with Nicolas have seriously diminished.
I fill Laura in on the hot merchandise located just behind her to her left. We debate for roughly three minutes about whether he is gay or French, and whether the shaggy haired-blonde seated across from him is his lover. Two minutes later he is declared French–with an almost perfectly straight score: not too vain, never seen Yentyl, though he enjoys cooking.
I take a careful sip from my cup to avoid a foam mustache while glancing in the mirrored wall to my left to make sure that the two strands of hair that I have strategically pulled out of my hairclip in order to frame my face are in place–EW! An overwhelmingly sweet taste catches me by surprise. Sugar. Someone has put sugar in my cup. I spray the sweet, syrupy milk all over my red scarf. Milk dribbles down my chin. My entire body is tingling with nerves. Everyone in the cafe is staring at me, Nicolas too. I fiddle with my scarf, trying to shake the milk off of it.
Three minutes later, rather than resuming their conversations, my company in the café continues to stare, awaiting my reaction.
The headwaiter with the belly fighting the cord of the white apron tied too tight over his thick waist rushes by, dropping a pile of red napkins in my lap. I wipe my mouth and dry myself off. While the people continue to stare, I pretend not to be bothered by my little accident and look at Laura and laugh. Laura does not laugh back, which makes me look even more stupid.
Out of the corner of my eye I watch Nicolas, with whom I have been avoiding eye-contact since the spill. He takes his black jacket off the back of his chair and slides out from behind the table. He pulls his jacket on over his perfectly fit gray t-shirt and blue jeans. Glancing at me, he smiles as he and his shaggy haired friend leave through the back door. He looks back at me through he window and waves shyly. I wave back, straining out of my chair to keep him in view as he disappears down the métro steps. Come back! Come back! I wait for him to re-appear but he does not.
I am heart-broken. Why hadn’t he introduced himself? Asked for my phone number? Why had someone spiked my cappuccino with the white crazy powder?
As Nicolas and I played the “shy eye” game across the café, Laura entertained herself by pouring three sugar packets into my cappuccino while I was not looking.
I eat sugar once a week, due to the fact that I am hypoglycemic and sugar tends to have a strange effect on me. (Rarely do I consume it in front of strangers or when with someone I would hate to see me as a fool. Every week, however, I offer myself the day off, “Eat as much as you can, as fast as you can.” It is my special day: I get to eat whatever I want and as much as I want. Today was supposed to be a “sugar-free” day. I was not supposed to meet the man I am going to marry when I was under the influence.
“I hate you,” I whisper to Laura, giving her a cold stare. I squint hard and direct while making a hissing sound in my throat. Now… Laura laughs.
I whine to Laura about losing the man of my dreams…and I find myself suddenly depressed. Will I ever see him again? In a city with over 8 million people, probably not. But how is it that in a city of over 8 million people this is the first man that I have found attractive in a month? Ce n’est pas possible! Ce n’est pas juste!
Laura agrees that lately the dateable guys have not been on the shelf. I wonder…out of season? Have they all gone to the country for the winter? Why didn’t Nicolas talk to me? In Los Angeles he would have walked right up to my table and asked me for my phone number. But then, he would have been cocky rather than confident and he wouldn’t have a Black Lab called Billy because a pet would mean too much responsibility and commitment and he surely would not receive a paid vacation let alone help feed the starving children of Africa in his free time. His name would be would be Cody, he’d have blond highlights and probably wouldn’t even know where Africa is.
Laura and I pay the check and kiss goodbye. On my way home to my small studio in the 16th arrondissement, I dream of Nicolas. The métro ride is much accelerated and the climb up my seven flights of stairs seems easy. This is because I have convinced myself that Nicolas will be waiting on the other side of the door for me with a beautiful salmon dinner.
I unlock the door to my studio and kick the rug back so that I can actually open the door. Nicolas is not there…I release a sigh of defeat. There would be no wedding for Kirsten and Nicolas.
The next week my eyes were open wide everywhere I went for Nicolas. I thought maybe just maybe I’d bump into him on my way to drop off my dry-cleaning or buy my groceries. I twice saw the tall skinny woman with the much too dark tan who has black woven shawls tied all over her body and carries a tambourine; I saw the man with the yellow baseball cap and the overstuffed blue backpack, three times. And just when I was convinced that I would never see Nicolas again…
It is Friday night and Laura and I step out of McDonald’s with our matching M&M McFlurry’s. We hurry as the short man with the large gut and the stingy black hair tied half-up with a purple hair-clip attempts to follow us after insisting on translating the entire McDonald’s menu, despite the fact that Laura is French, and each item on the menu has a picture next to it. We lose him as we disappear down the métro steps at Opera.
Laura and I follow the signs to the M8 towards the Concorde. As we round the tunnel and enter the quai, we stop suddenly, causing three people to collide behind us. He is 6’3″, brown hair, medium length, nice build, strong shoulders, hazel eyes that sparkle when he smiles–he is a Nicolas. He looks in our direction, probably to determine who caused the accident in the tunnel. He catches my eye and smiles. I start to giggle.
At this time a large thud is heard while an 18-year-old guy with dreadlocks wearing a baby-blue basketball jersey is shoved against the Selecta machine by the guy in the orange warm-up pants and the purple bandana. The guy in the bandana backs away from the machine, passes me and utters something nasty in French. Nicolas takes a step towards Laura and me and offers a comforting smile. Forgetting about the mean man in the bandana I start to giggle again. I turn my head so that Nicolas can’t see me.
The train arrives and as my luck would have it Nicolas and I are divided by two separate cars. I shove another bite of my McFluffy into my mouth. Laura consoles me and pats me on the back. But then, much to our surprise as the doors to the cars open, Nicolas defies the train divider and boards our car. Laura and I stand; I grasp the pole with my left hand, holding my McFlurry in my right. Nicolas sits in one of the blue fold-down seats next to us.
Nicolas takes out a camera and seems to be playing back some footage. He’s probably doing a documentary on the starving children in Africa. He looks up at me and smiles again. Laura starts to push me as to take the empty seat next to him, but I am frozen in place. I cannot move or speak and my smile seems to be pasted on my face. Suddenly I feel something cold and wet dripping down my right arm. My McFlurry! I had absent-mindedly crushed the container in my right hand while trying to suppress my giggles. I am helpless. I have no napkins and no tissues. I am a sticky mess. Does Nicolas notice?
Two stops later we arrive at Concorde, where Laura and I must change for the M1. Nicolas and I exchange one last smile as I step off the train. So close again! Another Nicolas lost. I am so frustrated…I am so covered in my McDonald’s M&M McFlurry. Laura hands me a tissue from her purse. I cannot believe she didn’t offer me one on the train, though Laura tends to find entertainment in my embarrassing episodes.
I am so confused. How do French girls find dates? Well, dates that aren’t crazy late-night métro riders who are caught trying to lick their earlobes. Why are only the crazy ones interested in me? Why had Nicolas smiled and then waved? This is flirting, no? Does he do this with everyone? Would he have smiled at the tall skinny woman covered in black shawls who carries the tambourine? Could it be that in both instances I was under the influence of sugar? And my perception was somewhat off?
Laura, being French, seems to understand the situation somewhat better than me. She explains that French women are very different from American woman and that they unusually put up several layers of defense so the Nicolases have to fight to get then down in order to finally get her to agree to give him her phone number. In France, guys just don’t waltz up to a girl and ask for her number because they will most likely get rejected. French girls make guys work for it.
Is Laura saying that LA girls are easy? I’m not easy. I’m desperate. There is a distinct difference.
At this moment I decide to stop my whining and begin a study on why normal dateable girls, remain Nicolas-less. I am determined to prove to myself that I can be asked out by a non-creep crazy, though Laura is doubtful. We agree that Laura and I will meet the following night at 10 pm in front of the fountain at Saint-Michel, then go to a pub where, Laura assures me, non-sleazy guys our age drink beer.
Saturday night, I wait for Laura at the fountain in front of the Saint-Michel métro station. Laura’s late and I am freezing. It is four degrees, and I left my warm coat at home to save myself the two euros it will cost at the pub to check it. I hate it when Laura makes me wait outside of the fountain by myself. The last time this happened a man in a ribbed navy blue turtleneck with cheap blond highlights in his hair approached me and told me that he wanted to do you know what to me from behind. I get restless waiting for Laura as a group of four guys in matching denim outfits leans against the street rail to my left, making kissy faces at me. Ah–Laura! I’m saved.
We walk around the corner, passing the McDonald’s, and arrive at the Longhop Pub. We make our way through the crowd of 11-year-olds being held up at the door by the two large bouncers wearing black t-shirts. Laura and I fight our way through the crowd to the bar, where we each order a Monaco, the single alcoholic beverage the same price as a soda. Laura sits on the only available stool at the edge of the bar and I lean over her while scoping out the crowd.
Laura and I play our favorite game– “Which guys are hot? And which ones would be hot if they had an Australian accent?” The results are surprisingly few. The guy about 24 standing much too close to Laura in the “I am German” t-shirt tucked into his tight denim jeans points out that we are speaking in English. Laura commends him on his insightful observation. He asks us if we’re American and then informs us that he is German.
Laura and I turn to leave the bar and venture upstairs, when we are blocked in by a very large, very hairy, very sweaty man in a pink button down shirt– that is, very unfortunately, not buttoned down–revealing a mat of curly black chest hairs. Hairy man in the pink shirt grabs me around the waist and starts freaking me from behind. Mortified, I put my hand out to Laura. She tries to pull me from his grip but he holds me to tight. I am forced to empty my almost full Monaco onto his head. Surprised by his sticky shower he lets go and Laura and I bolt for the front doors.
Laura and I end up at the McDonald’s at the end of the block. We each order the Gold menu–a Big Mac, large fries, large Coke and a cheeseburger. I beg the girl behind the counter with the long curly brown hair tied up in a pony-tail for extra ketchup. She hands me one packet.
Laura and I take are trays upstairs, relieved to be free from the scary hairy man in the pink shirt. At the top of the stairs Laura and I are hard pressed to find a seat. McDonald’s is packed, at 11 o’clock on a Saturday night. Two teenaged girls with backpacks sit together at a table by the window, sipping cafés. To their right a very fit man wearing sunglasses, a Christian Dior t-shirt, and designer jeans sits at the bar reading The Art of Happiness, written by His Holiness the Dali Lama; and three girls in their twenties, straight out of a gap commercial, sit at the circular table in the corner knitting red scarves.
Laura and I eat in silence as we watch everyone around us. I am impressed by the speed at which these girls knit. They are nearly done with their scarves when Laura and I are finished with our Gold menus. We empty our trays into the trash and stop for two caramel sundaes with nuts on the way out.
As we approach the Saint-Michel métro station we see him: 6’3″, brown hair, medium length, nice build, strong shoulders, hazel eyes that sparkle when he smiles. He is Colin Firth coming to us in Paris on December 3rd in Working Title’s new film, Love Actually. Laura and I finish our sundaes while admiring his calm, confident gaze as illustrated on the poster.
That night, as I walk up the seven flights back to my studio, alone, I think about Nicolas and wonder where he was and what he’s doing or who he’s doing and I realize that the truth is that he probably has a girlfriend, or is gay, or both. Or he’s on set filming his next movie, rather than feeding the starving children in Africa. However, it is important for me to be aware that Nicolases do exist, and that I should not lower my standards and allow scary hairy men in pink shirts to freak me in pubs.
I had seen three Nicolases in six weeks so there were bound to be more in a city containing over 8 million people. In the meantime, while I wait for my Nicolas, I will stop consuming sugar, just in case I bump into him unexpectedly; it is better to avoid making a complete fool out of myself. But for now, well, I have a date on December 3rd with Colin Firth, and the best thing about this? I can eat as much sugar as I want. I think I’ll get one of those Hagen Daaz ice-cream bars they sell in the movie theatres… I’ll make sure to bring a napkin.
—
Kirsten joins Bonjour Paris from Los Angeles, California where she recently graduated from the University of Southern California with a BFA in Acting. Last year she co-wrote the book and lyrics to a new pop musical which expects to open in Los Angeles next spring. Two years ago, while studying at a conservatory in London, Kirsten fell in love with Paris and decided that she was destined to return for some time. She’s thrilled to experience this dream come true.
Kirsten joins Bonjour Paris from Los Angeles, California where she recently graduated from the University of Southern California with a BFA in Acting. Last year she co-wrote the book and lyrics to a new pop musical which expects to open in Los Angeles next spring. Two years ago, while studying at a conservatory in London, Kirsten fell in love with Paris and decided that she was destined to return for some time. She’s thrilled to experience this dream come true.
Related Articles
