the french kiss . . .

(This story is for Mary – who wanted me to get to the “good stuff”. And for my parents – this entry is rated PG-13 so please read at your own risk.)

I had my first French kiss tonight. Pas vraiment (Ok not really). My first French kiss was with Dixon Miller, age 14, Ellicott City, Maryland. Dixon was a sophomore, starting quarterback of our football team and absolutely gorgeous. We had been “going together” for a week or so when one day, as he was walking me home from school, he stopped a block from my house. (A cause de the prying eyes of my family.) As Dixon looked into my eyes, he bent his head down for the kiss, for which my mouth remained closed (not knowing any other way at age 14). However, he proceeded to pry my lips open and dump at least a gallon of saliva on me. My first French kiss only lasted a moment as I found it obligatory to immediately go home and remove the excess saliva from my face.

Needless to say the next day, Dixon decided to proclaim his young teenage love and thus that was the end of that. I think perhaps I was too practical to think you could fall in love in high school, so anyone who proceeds to say je t’aime at age 14 could not be taken seriously – (not to mention I could not stand the thought of having to kiss him again).

Of course there have been many kisses since then, much more delightful in fact, but perhaps none as memorable.

Other than the fact that I have had to witness many make-out sessions each day in the metro, I have yet to figure out why they call it French kissing. So last night, on my third date with Alex, I decided to see if there was a difference. But perhaps I should first start with a description of dating and the French men.

Dating a Frenchman is not easy. Or rather, they are not easy to catch. As an international student, you are primarily exposed to any nationality other than French. Of course there was the unrequited love of “the substitute” and now my desperate crush on my coiffeur (a story for another time), but generally you meet few true Parisians.

However, men lie in wait everywhere here. They surround the metro entrances, they prowl the streets and make advances on the train cars. Malheureusement (unfortunately), I attract them like magnets. Perhaps it is my American look --- the blond hair, the oversized chest. It is my grand annoyance with France, although I have heard of similar stories of Italy and I have experienced similar stories in Greece. The reputation of European men is well known – I was forewarned for sure. But these men are anything but romantic. A nuisance and an annoyance. I have a strong distaste for them and find the “ooh la la’s” and profanities disgusting. I will say they are typically harmless, but occasionally you come across some that appear more dangerous. Last week I was grabbed in front of my flat by such a person but managed to push him away and seek refuge inside the secured entryway without further incident. (Perhaps a result of living on my block which seems a bit more sketch than most.)

I have been asked out beaucoup de fois (many, many times) by men in cafes, bars, etc. Never had I considered saying yes. Until Alex.



I have been fortunate to have been invited to several French parties. This is rare for foreigners. Of course there are many parties of international students that I often go to, but culturally French rarely open their doors to outsiders. My take on this is that philosophically once they have chosen their long-time friends, they continue to maintain close tight-knit circles. It is not that they do not like foreigners, rather that they only have room for so many people in their circle so it is hard to find an entrance.

I met Alex at a party of predominately French. Time and time again, I find myself attracted to the shy, cute, quiet guy that speaks more through his facial expressions than with words. Talking to him several times in the night, I found that it was not easy. But my bubbling American personality persevered. Perhaps this is why I am so often paired with the quiet guy. After successfully asking for my number, we agreed to meet at a jazz show the following week.

It is true that Alex is perhaps a bit more introverted that most, but several of my close friends also date French men and here is my take. The true French Parisian man is extremely shy and timid. They prefer to flirt silently with their eyes. I have found them to be quiet intellectuals with beautiful smiles and of course twinkling eyes. If they find a woman where the spark is mutual, they transform into forward and romantic men. They treat you as if you were the sole woman and are kind, respectful and thoughtful. They are quite drol (funny) and witty as well, but again you have to wait for them to show their true selves --- and once they have exposed their true nature you feel as though you have captured a friend for life (I know incredibly “cliché” sounding – but honestly the only way I could get my point across.)

To my friends at home, who know about my categorization system for women, know that there are always three types. I have only described for you, two types of French men. I think perhaps there is a third type. A cross between the catcaller on the street and the quiet guy who talks with his eyes, but I guess I still need some work on meeting the third type.

To keep this at PG-13 I will reserve the remaining details of my time with Alex for the gals back home after we drink a Tecate and lime.

But as for the French kiss --- let’s just say a French kiss is just a French kiss. But a French kiss in Paris is the most romantic in the world!

Bisous (kisses) to you!

b.


Photos of Giverny (Monet's Garden)







Epilogue –

It has been several weeks since I have written this entry. My apologies for my delay in posting, but time is slipping away so quickly here. Since I wrote this, I have to confess, I was completely naïve to think I could classify the French men into three types. This culture is much more complex to grasp than I had originally imagined. While my time with Alex continues to amaze me, I have grown much closer to some other French men (and women). What I have found so fascinating is their tendency to frequently have intense discussions about politics, history, current affairs, versus light chit chat. It appears these discussions drive knowledge and education and do not divide the nation but rather draw them closer together. The French vote on issues that they respond to with their hearts and are never aligned solely with their political party. I think as an American, voting strictly on an issue is not always done with the outwardly confidence I feel here.

I am fascinated by the exposure of this additional type of men (and women) I have met. Even beyond the discussions, there is such intensity in their emotions. They crave constantly the feelings that their life experiences spark. Where I had always thought of the French as closed – I realize the exact contraire is true. In one word, I feel I can describe the French as “open”. Open in a way the Americans are closed. Where we are embarrassed, bashful, or put to much emphasis on mannerism and societal acceptance and thus act in a way that is perceived as judgment to others when really we are just trying to fit in.

Everything that is politically incorrect – discussing your religion, politics, sexuality or even small things like your age is acceptable here. The discussion spark respect and not repression which I find is increasing the political divide of my country.

Returning to dating and the French man – don’t be fooled by my entry. The French men are not the catcallers of the street and can not be stereotyped as the quiet intellect filled with romance. The French man has a complexity I have not fully grasped – for me it is critical to just have the ability to being “open” enough to want to be a part of his world – a world that now that I have experienced, I am not sure I will be able to live with out.

b.