Dating is already tricky here in Texas. Sure, sometimes it’s fun and perfect and you find yourself gazing across the table into a pair of baby blues while sharing a milkshake and holding hands. Then for weeks and weeks after you’re scribbling hearts and his initials into a notebook and planning the next 50 years of your lives together—from wedding to children to retirement home.
Or, you know, there’s reality.
He’s got spinach in his teeth or bad breath. He’s a bad kisser or a bad tipper. He’s a no-show or he’s got B.O. All he’ll talk about are his precious D-boys or, even worse, he asks you if you wanna touch “Mr. D.”
The list of potential problems and pitfalls goes on and on…
Well ladies, I wish I could tell you that things were different abroad. But in France at least, where I studied, dating and boys were exactly the same. They just dressed better.
Here’s a play-by-play of my personal favorite French fling:
It was a rainy evening in a Paris café when my waiter slipped me the note.
“You go to dinner with me?”
“Oui,” I wrote back.
His name was Camille. He was French… And he was beautiful.
We arranged to meet back at the cafe that evening and gleefully I skipped home along the Seine, potential outfits and visions of our future children–Jacques and Pierre, naturally–dancing in my head.
If only I knew how our little rendezvous would turn out.
STRIKE ONE:
First, in the name of safety, I had a frenzied Skype session with my friend Megan, where I gave her the name and information of my future husband in case he ended up instead being my future rapist/murderer. Then I threw on my sequined shorts (I went fancy for the occasion…they’re less tacky than they sound), opted out of the beret and, nervous and full of baguette (the ideal pre-date snack), I hopped on the metro. Fifteen minutes later I got to the cafe, excited and sweaty-palmed and…he wasn’t there.
10 minutes later…he wasn’t there.
Finally, after 20 minutes of waiting and pretending to watch handball–the least-stimulating sport of all time, for those interested– he shows up.
Tardiness? Strike one.
Luckily he redeemed himself with his accent and velvet blazer…and by being so freaking pretty.
STRIKE TWO:
Dinner was the dream—très romantique, if you will. He made suggestions and I ordered accordingly. Pre-dinner cocktail? Of course, Camille! Pasta? Oui! A fine wine? Well…to complement the pasta, I suppose. Dessert? How could I say no to molten chocolate decadence of that caliber? I was full and happy, kind of drunk and completely in love…until the check came.
“Sooo…fifty-fifty?”
EXCUSE ME?!
I thought the expression was going Dutch NOT going French. No matter which way you instruct me to order eight courses then ask me to whip out my wallet and throw down for dinner, it’s not cute—even with that adorable accent.
Wining and dining me…on my tab? Strike two.
STRIKE THREE:
I’ve always been a forgive-and-forget person. And hey, Camille was just a waiter. Sure I’d already given him a hefty tip earlier and then he’d asked me to cough up some cash for dinner but hey, like I said…he was realllllly cute. And have you ever been complimented in French? Every time he told me how jolie, belle or magnifique I was, the more the bad feelings faded (or maybe it was just that bottle of wine). Soon, l’homme in the velvet blazer won me over.
“Do you know zee French kiss?”
And BAM! Suddenly his pillowy French lips were meeting my semi-chapped American ones. It was all good in the hood–I wasn’t seeing fireworks but I mean it was better than the evening’s alternative of watching illegally-downloaded episodes of Desperate Housewives online in my apartment–until…
“Purrrrr”
What?!
“Purrrrr…like cat.”
I can handle tardiness. I can deal with lack of proper dating etiquette when the check comes. But I CANNOT handle animal noises.
Every vision of our delightful unborn Jacques and Pierre was aborted and
suddenly I had the intense urge to vomit up that sauvignon blanc. After some quick excuses and a faux stomachache, I bid Camille, my no-longer-amour, adieu and hailed a cab.
Strike three.
You’re out.