Charlie

Back at a Free Concert a few weeks ago, I met a boy named Charlie.

I showed up phone-less, money-less, and key-less. The intent was to meet up with a few friends but due to the fact that Revolver, a somewhat popular French band was playing, I gave up any hope of finding them and did my super secret technique in order to get to the front of the crowd.

He was taking pictures next to me. I figured he was into journalism or something but I didn't take too much notice because I was a bit sore from some earlier turbulence. I was partying with a goofy teenager and what I assumed to be his aunt up towards the front. Charlie was next to me, snapping photos with his big fancy camera.

My radar (or maybe his) must have been going off because we eventually started talking. He spoke English almost perfectly with some sort of strange American or Scottish accent.

I was a little sour by our first encounter. I was a sour grape in general that day, so I took off. I waited in a long line to pee and at this time, standing in the sticky hallway of an washroom, I heard the one song that I liked by the artist, called Revolver. Not an ideal place for dancing.

As I climbed the treacherous staircase, I decided to get a beer and try to shake off my bad mood before I crashed and burned. I walked up to the bar but no one paid any attention to me. After a few minutes of waving money around I noticed that there was a line out the door and onto the sidewalk.

Merde.

So I'm sulking and pouting and walking away when I run into the camera-boy.

He starts talking to me and I figure hey, what the hell. Must be my kismet or something. Maybe he will cheer me up. Maybe his cool pilot friend will come and we will talk about the pros and cons of the French education system. Maybe I will get locked out of my apartment and will be forced to sleep on a beautiful Parisian girl's couch.

All that and then some.

So I gave Charlie my e-mail at the end of the nights because he wanted to take pictures of me hula hooping. Innocent enough. 

We end up not doing this but going out for drinks. I must say he was very smooth in asking me out. I didn't even realize it was happening. So we meet at Chateau d'eau and he brings me on rue St. Denis, not exactly the poshest part of Paris but as I learned at Wanderlust later on next week, I prefer the earthier parts of town. 

Charlie's demeanor confused me. He wasn't exactly French in my eyes because not only was he speaking English but his appearance was not typical of most French men. He wore an American style polo, khakis, a short hair cut, and no facial hair. For me, this was what I would expect an American guy to wear on a date. It was the point Oxford shoes that threw me off.

Sidenote here. The biggest difference between French boys and American boys are the shoes. French boys wear *GENERALIZATION WARNING* really snazzy shoes whilst American boys... don't. Maybe a visual aid will help.

 French

 American

Yeah. So Charlie was American boy from head to ankle. As we began to start the "get-to-know-you-phase", he told me that he felt very embarrassed speaking French to me. I wanted to tell him that he was monumentally more sexy when he spoke French but, I deemed this point a bit too early for being crass. Charlie was sweet, in the all American-boy kinda way. He asked me questions about myself and asked permission to correct my French. I half expected him to start speaking with a Southern accent.

So after our first round, things got interesting and there was a slight rupture in my confused state of Charlie the Melting Pot. For about a half an hour, Charlie and I spoke about Arabic with two men sitting next to us, after one of them asked me for a lighter. We had a discussion about how American children do not respect their elders and how the Arabic language has very specific colloquial ways of greeting others. We also spoke about the meaning behind names. Very interesting stuff, but all in French. The beer and Charlie's English had caused me to repose the French Center of my brain. This man, named Nassim, fired up the engines, especially when he asked me if I was a feminist. Whew, c'est chaud. 

So Charlie and I made our way to another bar where we drank wine (very French) and he told me that he does NOT LIKE CHEESE (not very French). My brain was further muddled (and I turned into a puddle) when he kissed me. 

Now, although French boys are gorgeous and romantic and polite and wear nice shoes, from my experiences, they cannot kiss. The reason we say "French kiss" is just in reference to some crazy belief that the French are sensual and not because the French know how to swap spit. On the contrary, I am quite turned off by each man (except Charlie..buuuhh) who I have given the opportunity to rub his tongue in on or around my mouth. I like to dub the French kissing technique "the washing machine". I am sure you can imagine what this is like. 

But Charlie... whoa. 

We made out like two adolescents until Charlie firmly told me that he was going home and that I was more than welcome to accompany him. I declined and I left.

All in all, Charlie struck me as a very particular French boy. His job, his poise, his style, even his voice told my brain he was American. And his kissing made me renounce my prior complaint. But there were leaks or breaks in his seams like when, for instance, we finished the bottle of wine and I began to detect a hint of French. Or when he asked me to sleep with him, saying something along the lines of..

"So are you coming home with me, or what?"

I feel like a guy in America would get a slap across the face for a question like that. But somehow, here in France, when men ask me that I just say No that's really sweet but no.

Will I see Charlie again? I'm interested by the guy, I must admit. He is like France, bombarded by American culture and language since the end of World War II but still clinging onto his French pride with his nice shoes and sex appeal. 

I am lured by his shoes and his kiss, wonderful.

But the conversation was nice as well. I mean, we spoke about the typical things..the subtles differences between languages, faux-amis, whatmadejulychoosefrance, my accent, his accent, different phonemes, cultural differences...

until next time! xo

Fabrice

The only American I have dated since being in Paris, Fabrice.

I met Fabrice at a bar while I was waiting in line for the bathroom. He had actually been with my group of friends, sitting at the other side of the table. I hadn't noticed. He seemed very sweet, I actually was under the impression that he was into boys because he was very good-looking, personable, and extremely well-dressed. I would like to think that I am usually right when I assume other's sexual orientations.

In the end, I had some free time after class one day, so I told him to meet me at Bastille. 

As soon as we started chatting, I knew that he was definitely not gay. Could have been him complimenting my scarf, or telling me that my jacket was ugly. Or maybe the fact that he refused to admit being lost. But what gave it away in the end was him trying to mistakenly place his hand on my breast while the metro jolted to a stop.

We checked out a Thai Resto that I had been interested in going to after reading a good review in a Paris guide book. According to the author, Fabrice and I were about to indulge ourselves with the best Thai food in Paris.

It was a cold winter day and we happened to be seated by the door. Fabrice complained THE WHOLE TIME. He also corrected my French because he was "perfectly bilingual". Little does Fabrice know, I have no patience for criticisms, especially from people who don't have a clue to as what they are talking about.

After almost falling asleep in my pad thai during his garrolous tales of gallavanting in New York (where he mentioned at least 9 times he had lived for a year), we left and he FOLLOWED ME HOME. I could not believe his thick-headedness. He even told a mutual friend that I was "fuckable".

I decided after this date that I would swear off of Americans for awhile. This should be easy enough, until my deportation.

Julien

my full time lover and best friend, Julien, quite possibly the most charming boy in Paris.

buuuh .. even when he eats cheeseburgers he is lovely.

We met at a nightclub that my friends and I endearingly called "The Strokes Bar" around the same time that I decided that I would under no circumstances leave Paris without coming back. The timing was impeccable. I had just agreed to my au pair contact when we met, and bought my return ticket.

I had no idea how dynamic our relationship would be our how well-matched we were that night we ment. Quite frankly, I dived head-first into our love affair with no definite plans for our future, no expectations and no fears. I was shocked two weeks later when he proclaimed that I was his copine. Our communication skills were, at best, limited to very broken English and French phrases. This forced us, in my opinion, to develop a very understanding relationship.

Julien challenges me to overcome my fears and I coax him to be more cautious. My unstable emotions are balanced out with his constant calm demeanor. He has taught me many things; how use a fork and a knife with flair, how to make the perfect salad dressing, and how to speak French.

He is, in short, super rad and this is why I have some trouble in taking other boys seriously. It's because of our stable relationship that I can explore the dating world of Paris and write funny blog entries about my ridiculous dates.

July does Paris

Romantic dinners, strolling by the Seine, outdoor cinema, wine, strange foods that are supposedly aphrodisiacs but look and taste like snot.. (yes I'm talking about oysters... euww)

They say that Paris is the city of love. I must admit, I have seen my fair share of PDAs, a fact that shocked the prude American in me the first couple of months I spent here. A couple clinging to each other, by the mouth, outside of a metro or humping each other in plain view in a park is quite shocking for someone who was brought up to say things like, "get a room", or be generally embarrassed by even small acts of affection.


Here in Paris, men really do walk around at night with bunches of roses, couples get to "third base" in public and yes I have swapped spit in public (and with an accordion accompaniment). Paris is teeming with couples, whispering on the metro, cuddling (and sometimes more) in the parks, or gazing into each others eyes in the midst of a crowded terrace. 

I did not come to Paris with the intent to find a lover. I did drool over the amazingly well-dressed and adorable French boys that litter the streets. But really, I had no expectations. Coming here was more an act of spontaneity and, in the beginning, I was only supposed to stay for five months. But a combination of the French ideals of romance and my little sickness, I would eventually end up where I am now. That is, writing funny stories about My Encounters with the draguers. .

It shouldn't be too different than that in the States. Right?

wrong. The French do it way different. Most notably, the people of this city seem to be incredibly horny and downright cheeky about it. The men stare and drool and stop what they are doing to speak to women walking by. I can't count the times that I have had men ask me to sleep with them while walking up the stairs in the metro, walking home at 7pm, grocery shopping, in the morning, in the post office... 


It doesn't stop there. Right away I began to notice that the men were staring at me when I walked down the street. I noticed this strange feeling when a man looked at me when I was 13 years old at Busch Gardens in Tampa Bay, Florida. It was right around the time that I grew boobs (although I am still sure that they were looking at my charming smile). So yes, it does happen in the US but not even close to as often.

And as for me, I eat it up. I love it. I crave this sort of attention. Ephemeral enough to give you that warm fuzzy feeling without any strings attached. It's the cute boy who catches your eye from across the street. Or a smile from the waiter at a cafe. The boy on the metro who is squeezed up next to you, who will get off the next stop and disappear into the crowd of people, never to be seen again.

So, with the help of the stud in the picture above, and a few random others, I've been able to sketch out a basic skeleton for the unwritten rules of French dating. And through my stories of different encounters I will try to write down these rules, for your reading pleasure.


Let's admit at least that I've come along way since my first catastrophe, Bruno. 


I've even branched out a bit and tried a few new flavors. Scots, Brazilians, Italians, even an American. I'm here to rate men, to pick them apart, to make you laugh at their (and sometimes my) expense. 


My goal? To make a guide based on dates that have already happened. To experiment. To figure out why you can be in love with someone and then after a few dates never want to see them again. To compare French dating culture with my own. To find the perfect date.


Any stories or comments are warmly welcomed :)

Adopted

So there's this

dating website, endearingly called "adopte" by the French. A girlfriend let me know how she had started using it. Consequently, I began to see ads popping up all around Paris. The ad that final sold me was one boasted a surplus of redheads.

So I sign up for the site and try my best to pick out the pictures that best represent me. The first boy to speak to me looks adorable in his pictures, let's call him Orosius I can't even contain my excitement. Quite frankly, I was a little hesitant to put myself on a dating website. I know myself pretty well, I tend to be a bit boy/sex/dating crazy.

I'm getting ahead of myself already.

Let's back up a few steps so I can explain the concept of "Adopte".

The women are able to peruse the men and speak to whomever she pleases. They (the men) are referred to as "merchandise" and "products". Women have the ability to see which men have looked at their profiles. The men on the other hand, must send a woman a "charm" and the woman must accept the "charm" in order to "give the man the right" to send her a message. Everything is in French and everything is called "doux" 

Shortly after signing up for Adopte, I am bombarded with charms. Naturally, I am a bit overwhelmed and a bit too quick to accept. Most of my potential products contact me in French and it takes me some time to respond. The first guy, Orosius, sent me a poem that took me a half an hour to understand. Others told me I was charming, that they play the ukulele as well, that they want to learn English, etc. etc. etc. There was Matthieu, Monsieur Crepe, Gregoire, Magic Kiwi, etc. some other terrible pseudonymous that I didn't understand...and many many many close up shots of shirtless guys.

I didn't like trying to be witty and clever in chats with all these guys (especially in another language). I didn't like when they asked me to be their "sex friends". I didn't like when all the questions began to blur together into "why are you in france andwhenwillyoubeleaving?

TUFAISQUOIDANSLAVIE?

ugh, I hate that one.

So, I would sign on and have anywhere from 3 to 30 "products to test". After a week or so, the afterglow wore off and I started to think adopte as another time waster. I wasn't going to create any meaningful relationships. I was just looking for the thrill of having a man pick my profile based on my pictures and a few very simple phrases. And also, French guys are hot. With their little scarves and pointy shoes and silly pictures.

In the end the website stressed me the fuck out. Guys were getting their panties in a bunch when I wasn't responding quick enough, I was confusing names and what I had already said to who...yeah.

After 8 days of testing products and being "charmed" I deactivated the account and took a nice deep breath.

Although I will not go back to the online dating scene anytime too soon I am just bursting to talk about my time spent on a few harmless dates after..

I adopted.

Wassim

Wassim

Wassim was the very first boy that hit on me in Paris. It happened at Canal Saint Martin in front of Pont Éphémère. I was with my American friends from cite U. I was sitting in between a few people when one of my friends left, leaving my left side open.

This is when Wassim fell in love.

He and a friend cat-called me until I looked over. I was not interested, my need for adventure and romance was already satiated thanks to my travels. I also don't normally respond to hisses and kissy noises.

Despite my disinterest, Wassim moved closer until he was sitting on my left, legs spread open. He spoke Italian and Arabic, while I spoke primarily English and some broken French. I knew that it would not work due to communication problems. Although we could not talk to each other and had a translator (his little buddy) Wassim told me that he wanted to marry me. When he finally learned my name, he wrote it in a notebook. With little hearts all around.

He had really nice penmanship so I decided to give him my number.

I could not understand a word of what he was saying when he called me. I gave up after one or two tries. I am not a fan of telephone conversations even in English. This was two or three months after arriving in France and I was definitely not an expert in French, especially broken French with a heavy accent (Wassim's little buddy I'm presuming).

Anyways I stopped picking up my phone and I stopped responding to the text messages. I had seen Wassim one more time after the night on the river. He had given me his watch and drew some more hearts on my school notebook.

I am pretty sure that he wanted to marry me. This he knew how to say in English, more or less.

He left a few unintelligible messages on my cell phone, I think he may have been drunk. I had no idea how to communicate with this boy and I was not very attracted to him anyways. I was not sure how to say this in French or Italian, so I took the "cold shoulder" route.

The phone calls didn't stop, even after a week. I had a male friend pick up a few times but this did not work either. Finally, I sent a few text messages saying that I was not interested, in order to be assertive about the situation.

And one night, I dropped my phone into the Seine marking the end of Wassim. Although towards the end things turned a little sour, I will always remember him as the very first boy who asked for my hand in marriage.

Monsieur Bruno

I arrived almost 10 minutes early, eager to meet my date, a man I had met a few nights beforehand. My First Date with a Frenchman. We made out in the smoking room ended up eating some pizza around 3 AM. There was nothing too special about Bruno, in fact I had been more interested in his English friend. Bruno entered his number into my phone before we parted ways. Normally I wouldn't have bothered calling.

And yet... I had been single for 4 months in Paris, so I figured that I might as well give it a shot. I only had a month left and I had not been courted. 

As I'm waiting for my Prince Charming at Place St. Michel I want to give a good impression, so I roll a cigarette. As I was searching my bag for my smoking paraphernalia I saw a large man approaching my general area. He asked, a bit aggressively, for a lighter. When he found out that I did not have one, to my complete surprise, he placed his hand around my throat and squeezed. Hard.


This was not a good way to start off my romantic Parisian rendez-vous. In retrospect, I probably should have run away after being choked in a public place. 

At the moment the crazy man released my jaw/neck from his massive paw,I saw Monsieur Bruno seated, tranquil, next to the fountain a few meters away.

This all happened in a short time frame.The crazy began to snort like a bull. I'm not sure what his next move was. I turned and scrambled over to Bruno, breathless, and tried to explain to him what had just happened, in terrible French. He was painfully disinterested by what had just happened to me. Instead, he placed his arm around my waist and kissed my cheeks. I looked over Bruno's shoulder, which was not hard as he was a few centimeters shorter than I, and saw the Crazy Man. He was still staring at me.

Bruno shrugged it off and said, "ziss iss Paree".

What?

This is, once again, a point in the night where I should have left.

Instead I tried to play it cool. Talk myself down. I can take a couple blows. He told me that he was taking me to have an apéro on a boat.

Then he told me his age.

Instead of telling Bruno that we were perhaps not on the same page and leaving, I told myself that this was normal and the French are known for their indifference to age. I smiled and finished my beer. I didn't eat the peanuts because I still wanted him to know how cool I was. At this point, I was still trying to shrug off what had happened to me earlier at the fountain and it seemed as though the magic of dating, of a date in Paris, on a boat in the Seine, had rendered me impervious to anything Bruno said, no matter how obviously incompatible we were.

Eventually, we found our way to Le Marais. He had picked out a restaurant for me, which was sooooooo adorable (still blinded by the fact that I'm actually on a date, in Paris, with a Frenchman). After an awkward moment of me explaining to Bruno that I do not eat meat and trying to decipher several large chalkboard menus, we decided on an Italian style resto instead of the one that he had previously recommended. Because there were no available spots, he proposed that we sit on a bench. This is the point in the date where we ran out of things to talk about.

Also, before Bruno sat down, he systematically opened his newspaper and started to gift wrap the bench.

This is the point in the date where I start to realize things are not going so well.

I had already sat down, so he awkwardly offered me some newspaper. Non merci Bruno.

So now I'm thinking, "I need some wine" and we are sitting down, elbows touching our neighbors, on one of Paris's famously crowded patios. He's asking me if I like wine. So we order a bottle.

Things went from awkward to worse after the wine, indeed. The conversation turned flat, not because of a language barrier but because we had nothing in common. He liked watching Grey's Anatomy, How I met Your Mother and his favorite band was Radiohead. He thought Midnight in Paris was hilarious, and some other details that I don't care to remember. I tried to explain to him how television rots your brain. I couldn't think of the French word for rot.

and then, after finishing his raw meat patties, he drops the bomb.

*sidenote: We are speaking in English at this point because my French is not so great and we have actually opened a second bottle of wine.

So now, Bruno is telling me that his wife and he have just split. He has no more home, in fact; he is currently sleeping on a friend's couch. She kicked him out of his house. They had been together for 10 years. And some other details.

Ouh la.

He looks like he's going to cry. Poor Bruno. Part of me feels terrible, the other part is telling me to RUN AWAY.

And now he's proposing me a tour of Paris in his car the next night?

At this point, the red lights are flashing, I'm ready to book it. We are leaving the restaurant and he is telling me he has missed the last train. I told him that dinner was great, thanks, buhbye.

Safe to say, I denied the second date and deleted his number out of my phone. 

Matthieu

So I met Matthieu through adopte. He seemed nice enough and looked really cute in his pictures (they were absolutely photoshopped or instagrammed or whatever it is people do to make themselves look beautiful). His profile said quite simply that he was an interesting and curious. I was quick to say yes to a date, although in retrospect I should have remarked how he was a bit overeager.

We met at the Pop In, a bar near Republique (or so I thought).

He had insisted on meeting at a pub, an idea that I myself was not too keen on. I had no desire whatsoever to sit inside a sticky pub in the steamy summer heat but I have noticed that some boys get a little ego boost when they pick the place. I noticed that Adopte has a female dominating theme, which is what pleased me about the site (later on Matthieu tells me that this is what he doesn't like).


I showed up late (30 mins, a new record) and the moment that I saw him I was a little disappointed to be honest...

What we Love about Matthieu

Let's start with a few positives.

He spoke to me in French (and he asked me very politely which I would prefer!) and he drank his beer slowly.

He never took out his cellphone (and also mentioned eagerly that he was pleased to see on my profile "no Smartphone addicts").

We started off with a smooth conversation about his "lack of television", (which was really a lack of a cable box).

Then the downhill landslide happens when I tell him that no, if you have a television screen then you still have a TV, silly boy.

um..let's just be frank and talk about

Why Matthieu sucks

He tells me that he gets  enragé when others use their cell phones around him and that he does not hestitate to tell someone off for doing so. This was my first indication of a slight anger problem.

Then, per usual, we start talking about the wonders of French cuisine. Unavoidable here is my mention of my abstention from meat. He immediately remarks that he does not know any vegetarians and that he doesn't understand the concept. I really can't stand when dates began to tick off facts against vegetarianism.

"We were born with canines to tear into flesh, we need meet to live, animals do not have the same kind of intelligence than humans, and worst: plants have feelings too!" Oh and then there's the.. "You know...there was this study done.." It's all the same, even in French, but almost a bit worse as meat takes a very big place in most French men's hearts. Understandable, as the quality of meat is very good, but still not my tasse de thé.

On top of this, he is shocked when I tell him that I don't like hamburgers, coca cola, typically delicious and nutritious Americana food. He says something along the lines of "So, you are not a américaine typique"

The date could have still went okay if he had not proceeded to talk about the exquiste taste of charred flesh that I am missing out on, his favorite type of meat, killing deer at his family's home so they could eat it after etc.

Stuff really started to go downhill when we left the first pub and went to the second which was 50 degrees (Fahrenheit) hotter than outdoors and full of boys playing World of War. I guess it's a new themed bar, a "Geek Bar". WoW was being projected on the walls.

He was a bit smaller than I am, something that I am not fond of. Now, this wouldn't matter if he had been a boy, girl, whatever. It's not the idea of having a big man that pleases me, I just need a lover that is bigger than me to feel more confident about myself. I didn't think he was a "little man" and that he couldn't "protect me". I just did not want my thighs to be larger than his.

Then, he tells me that he thinks his job is worthless. 

Although I am being a bit cold, he is still too touchy. This is normal with French guys. A hand on the small of the back, a touch on the hand, a hand on the thigh... all behaviors that eventually lead up to him asking you to fuck. Except in French its "making love".  Matthieu first asked me if I could be his "sex friend". And about 10-15 minutes into the date! In retrospect, I think the cold shoulder method is not an efficacious way to let a man know that he you are not on the same wave length.

I've heard that French girls (the Parisian ones mostly) are generally cold and like to prendre la tête. Perhaps this is why Frenchmen get right to the point. I also think that this is why, up until this point, I have had a tendancy to give a wrong impression with my relentless flirting, giggles, compliments. Not the right approach at all for these horndogs, or so it seems. 

So in the end, my method of rejection is quite simple: I lie and say I am addicted to drugs, a 7day a week boozer, that I have paranoia, insomnia problems, a blog in which I demoralize men after having dated them...

After prying myself out of Matthieu's grasp, I went home and deactivated my Adopte account. Rash, I know. But that's how I make most decisions.

So far, I have not been back on the site.