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You know who she was? And we pushed her out the door.
She was so ashamed, she immediately got on a plane back to England. Frenchwomen love light, and light loves Frenchwomen. It bends around them, bows to them. They are mistresses of the morning. Nonsense like that is why the British Empire fell. Dating and hook-up culture is as foreign to Frenchwomen as class and elegance are to American women. Angling for love is gauche.
Frenchwomen simply stand elegantly like statues and wait for an admirer. We wait for him to show his affection.
If he tries and fails, we crush him beneath our heels and use him as a pedestal on which to stand to become taller, that more men might see us and approach. Why are American women so graceless, desperate and ugly? It is a popular but enduring myth that flawless French beauty is the result of a classy, deft, no-makeup-makeup look.
But by and large, Frenchwomen spurn makeup in any form. They choose instead to peel off every cubic centimetre of epidermis each morning, and grow a new layer before they step outside to greet the day.
That dewey look that their skin has? I would peel it off with my fingernails, if I had the chance. I would claw their entire fucking faces off. Frenchwomen never smile in pictures because Frenchwomen never emote at all.
The women do not walk through the streets of Paris. Walking is effort, and effort is sweat, and sweat is for some other country. Their toe-tips drift three centimetres above the cobblestones at all times. They have wings, which are invisible. These wings are still and do not flutter, even invisibly. No one is sure if they die at all. I got in my coffin 68 years ago, because it seemed like the time.
My casket is comfortable, and you get to have some good conversations with the people buried around you, provided you speak loudly enough. Besides, the spare, dead skin makes great bedding. There is no try.
Frenchwomen do not try to do anything. They do not try to look good or try to please anyone. They do not try to walk. They simply float through life, as on their backs down the river. They simply move with the tides, and the tides carry them to perfection, where they live endlessly in the sun, which loves them. While my Parisian love stories have been far from a string of scenes written for romantic comedies, I have come out of these six years with an understanding of how dating in Paris works, and perhaps a little bit more about myself. Before my arrival I was convinced that I was going to be swept off my feet by my French heartthrob, indie actor Louis Garrel, and that all French men looked like him.
I learned not to box myself into an idea of what I expected of Paris and had fun meeting different kinds of guys. Try to engage in small talk with a guy at an old man tabac that was littered with lottery tickets and smelled like stale coffee where I was mistaken for a professional. Why would I want to be more French when I could just be myself?
Being a foreigner is considered exotic. The misconception that the French turn their noses up to Americans is so painfully 80s. The French drink Coca Cola, wear Converse, and go to brunch. Peppering their conversations with little expressions and words in English is as chic or some would say pretentious as when we sprinkle our dialogue with a few bon mots.
Play with the language and just be you. Overestimate your French communication skills where I was at times unwittingly suggestive. How was I to know that addressing my aggressive cat as a feminine noun would have such a salacious dirty double meaning?
Everyone Says I Love You? Okay, maybe not everyone but French guys really do love declaring this early on in a relationship. They may even like the challenge.
Luckily the guy who I flipped out on really did love me and is now my husband. Things may have changed with the Tinder generation sweeping through Paris but I have heard from single friends that even this hook-up culture is losing some steam. Casually go out on a date with a guy you have tepid feelings for to practice your French and because why not? There is no why not, especially if you give him a small kiss at the end of your dates because this is incredibly misleading to a French man.
Not to be a downer but yes, break-ups in Paris do happen. They happen just as quickly as relationships start where you recall only weeks earlier when you were the butter to his baguette. You ask yourself staring down at your phone that you are convinced is blocking his phone calls. French men are painfully honest when they feel things have fizzled out and speaking from experience; it really hurts but it can be incredibly humbling. Try not to internalize and just move on.
Customer Service Advisor - German Speaking. Many, many French expressions use food to paint a picture, which is perhaps some manifestation of the country's obsession with what's on the table. Frenchwomen do not try to do anything. Not to be a downer but yes, break-ups in Paris do happen. Je parle des implications sociales de cet accrochage. Jobs in Europe IE. They are mistresses of the morning.
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