My French Lover.

Sacré bleu it's Sacré Coeur!

Paris is a very romantic city. It is full of spindly streets, moonlight, iconic landmarks, and highly attractive people. The Parisians are also very public about their Intimacy. This applies especially to the elderly, who rampantly practice PDA as if in defiance of their own waning virility. Such scenes inspire complex feelings of disgust and tenderness such as occur when watching a puppy vomit. There is something satisfying, however, about seeing two well-clad French folk snuggling on the Metro. Perhaps they will marry and have two cute French babies who will wear only pastel clothing (in France baby clothes are only permitted to be in pastels, because the dye is better for delicate baby skin--this is why French children are so incomparably adorable).

This romance is catching, and I felt compelled to get me a Frenchman. Let's call him Bernard. I think Bernard is just swell. He is about ninety feet taller than me, he looks like an impoverished French artist, and he speaks English about as well as I speak French. Which is to say poorly. Very poorly. I found his attempts at sentences deeply charming until about halfway through our first date, when I realized that I had not understood anything he had told me. I bet he is a very interesting fellow. After getting some drinks we walked about and he pointed at things and talked quickly in French, and I said, "oui" when I sensed that agreement was necessary. When I spoke in English, he would say "ah yes" and nod eagerly at inappropriate moments, so I suspect he was equally befuddled. Nevertheless, it was an entirely pleasant experience, and there arose from mutual lingual struggle a kind of primitive sign language, which is perhaps the true Language of Romance. It was very Love Actually. We are going on another date in a few days, and I will a.) somehow grasp the entire French language before Wednesday and b.) bring a dictionary.