Frédéric was my first lover after I moved to Paris. Soon after my arrival here, I acquired the habit of taking long walks late at night along the river Seine, especially along the Quai st Bernard. One night, I spotted a young man carrying a shopping bag from Sentou. Now, if you shop there (it’s a shop for home decoration) it almost always means that you have good taste! One look at the guy, and I would not have cared if he had taste or not…he was so sexy. This place, being known as a gay cruising place, no excuse was necessary to strike up a conversation (if indeed one wishes to converse before going into the bushes). But I think of Miss Manners and I decided to talk instead of simply make myself scarce in the bushes and hoping that he would follow. Thank you Miss Manners, this turned out to be a good decision.
We talked until very late and he walked me halfway home (OK, I lied, we did go into the bushes for a bit). We exchanged phone numbers and thus began my first Paris love story.
In many ways, Frederic was the epitome of what I thought Parisian lovers ought to be. Impulsive, passionate, emotional complete with a touch (in fact, a truckload) of existential crises that would surge in unlikely moments such as between love makings. He called me at least 5 times during the day just to say that he thought of me, even though at night we would see other. I was on cloud 9 and could tell that I was falling for him just because he was falling for me. The law of reciprocity? Who knows and who cares.
The first night, we met up at the café Beaubourg. Among books, handsome waiters, cigarette smoke, candles, flowing drapes and the Centre George Pompidou in front who could help but fall in love ? We walked out and he declared right then that he was falling in love with me. I looked him in the eye and said, as any reasonable person (or any new Parisian) would, that he barely knew me. He said, (translated) Let’s fuck and get to know each other, which sounded just parfait perfect in French. This suggestion is not, by the way so French, but just so gay the world over: we have sex to get to know each other (and not the other way around!). We went back to my place and we got to know each other again and again.
But, this was, I thought, so unFrench. Where are the dramas and the crises that I see in French films? Well, I should have known, as indeed cloud 9 soon descended to meet mother earth. First off, him being Jewish, our sorties in my neighbourhood was a bit awkward (my neighbourhood is a gay and a jewish neighbourhood). He risked and therefore was wary of running into those he had always known since he was a child (whilst having me in his arms). Lesson number 1: Frenchmen may be crazy, irrational and impulsive when it comes to love but only when not in their neighbourhood and risk being found out by family friends. (This explains partly why French lovers are considered great by foreigners. I guess they meet them overseas and not in their home turf!).
Drama or crisis number two, it is so true that no single good guy is available once you reach a certain age and beyond. He indeed told me that not only did he have a b.f. but that they were living together. This idea could excite some people, but once I decided I was in love I had no desire to share him with anyone else. The problem was that his lover was coming back soon from his travel. Our time together would then be reduced to afternoon trysts. And in a typical French fashion, Frederic looked at me and shrugged his shoulders as if none of it was his fault, C’est la Vie ! (The existence of this lover could also explain why he was reticent about walking arms in arms as lovers do with me in my AND in his neighborhoods)
Third, despite the few remaining days before the return of his lover, our time together was constantly interrupted by his neurotic friends. I could not figure out why he had so many neurotic friends nor attribute this to his being gay, being French or being Jewish or all three. In any case, he would spend hours on the phone talking to his hysterical friends that seemed to have one existential crisis after another. He of course thought I was being so insensitive when I told him that if his friends wished to commit suicide 5 times a day, maybe he should just let them and see. No, existential crises are very real and had to be taken very seriously, including getting into fight with your new lover, or should I say plaything, seeing now that the cat (his real lover) is out of the bag. However, between his own and his friends' existential crises there was hardly time for us two to exist!
Through Frederic I learned that long friendship is very important to my French friends. Many keep in touch and still live near friends that they knew since they were still in shorts! This cannot be more untrue for me, I have not lived near my old friends for along time what with all the moves that I have done as well as those of my friends. My French friends seem to not have this idea of mobility at the price of putting distance between themselves and their friends or family. If they do move (from province to Paris, most often), they do go back pretty often as if to recharge their battery by breathing the air of their terre.
Finally, to make matters worse, I was becoming allergic to his cats (Actually, I just said that to convince myself that Frederic and I were indeed never meant to be. The cats were in fact lovely and certainly were less neurotic than his friends).
So, despite the Halva that he brought me, bought from a special Jewish store, our love started to be less sweet than sugar.
The intense love that he felt for me seemed to have died as suddenly as it appeared. Oh, C'est la vie I thought, munching on the Halva and getting a tooth ache.
I consoled myself saying that this is Paris where love is in the air that one could catch it as quickly as one could lose it. No worries, I told myself in my most optimistic logical frame of mind, the wind will surely blow this way again. But then I picked up the phone and expressed my angoisse to my new French friends. This is how we get to know each other here, non ? When in Paris, do as Parisians do.
We talked until very late and he walked me halfway home (OK, I lied, we did go into the bushes for a bit). We exchanged phone numbers and thus began my first Paris love story.
In many ways, Frederic was the epitome of what I thought Parisian lovers ought to be. Impulsive, passionate, emotional complete with a touch (in fact, a truckload) of existential crises that would surge in unlikely moments such as between love makings. He called me at least 5 times during the day just to say that he thought of me, even though at night we would see other. I was on cloud 9 and could tell that I was falling for him just because he was falling for me. The law of reciprocity? Who knows and who cares.
The first night, we met up at the café Beaubourg. Among books, handsome waiters, cigarette smoke, candles, flowing drapes and the Centre George Pompidou in front who could help but fall in love ? We walked out and he declared right then that he was falling in love with me. I looked him in the eye and said, as any reasonable person (or any new Parisian) would, that he barely knew me. He said, (translated) Let’s fuck and get to know each other, which sounded just parfait perfect in French. This suggestion is not, by the way so French, but just so gay the world over: we have sex to get to know each other (and not the other way around!). We went back to my place and we got to know each other again and again.
But, this was, I thought, so unFrench. Where are the dramas and the crises that I see in French films? Well, I should have known, as indeed cloud 9 soon descended to meet mother earth. First off, him being Jewish, our sorties in my neighbourhood was a bit awkward (my neighbourhood is a gay and a jewish neighbourhood). He risked and therefore was wary of running into those he had always known since he was a child (whilst having me in his arms). Lesson number 1: Frenchmen may be crazy, irrational and impulsive when it comes to love but only when not in their neighbourhood and risk being found out by family friends. (This explains partly why French lovers are considered great by foreigners. I guess they meet them overseas and not in their home turf!).
Drama or crisis number two, it is so true that no single good guy is available once you reach a certain age and beyond. He indeed told me that not only did he have a b.f. but that they were living together. This idea could excite some people, but once I decided I was in love I had no desire to share him with anyone else. The problem was that his lover was coming back soon from his travel. Our time together would then be reduced to afternoon trysts. And in a typical French fashion, Frederic looked at me and shrugged his shoulders as if none of it was his fault, C’est la Vie ! (The existence of this lover could also explain why he was reticent about walking arms in arms as lovers do with me in my AND in his neighborhoods)
Third, despite the few remaining days before the return of his lover, our time together was constantly interrupted by his neurotic friends. I could not figure out why he had so many neurotic friends nor attribute this to his being gay, being French or being Jewish or all three. In any case, he would spend hours on the phone talking to his hysterical friends that seemed to have one existential crisis after another. He of course thought I was being so insensitive when I told him that if his friends wished to commit suicide 5 times a day, maybe he should just let them and see. No, existential crises are very real and had to be taken very seriously, including getting into fight with your new lover, or should I say plaything, seeing now that the cat (his real lover) is out of the bag. However, between his own and his friends' existential crises there was hardly time for us two to exist!
Through Frederic I learned that long friendship is very important to my French friends. Many keep in touch and still live near friends that they knew since they were still in shorts! This cannot be more untrue for me, I have not lived near my old friends for along time what with all the moves that I have done as well as those of my friends. My French friends seem to not have this idea of mobility at the price of putting distance between themselves and their friends or family. If they do move (from province to Paris, most often), they do go back pretty often as if to recharge their battery by breathing the air of their terre.
Finally, to make matters worse, I was becoming allergic to his cats (Actually, I just said that to convince myself that Frederic and I were indeed never meant to be. The cats were in fact lovely and certainly were less neurotic than his friends).
So, despite the Halva that he brought me, bought from a special Jewish store, our love started to be less sweet than sugar.
The intense love that he felt for me seemed to have died as suddenly as it appeared. Oh, C'est la vie I thought, munching on the Halva and getting a tooth ache.
I consoled myself saying that this is Paris where love is in the air that one could catch it as quickly as one could lose it. No worries, I told myself in my most optimistic logical frame of mind, the wind will surely blow this way again. But then I picked up the phone and expressed my angoisse to my new French friends. This is how we get to know each other here, non ? When in Paris, do as Parisians do.
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