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
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