As a way of saying thank you, I sent flowers down to FWB's parents to be delivered Friday and a card to FWB that will hopefully get there today.
I was bumming around in my studio working on papers when my phone rang. I picked up to FWB's voice.
¨We got your flowers,¨ I could hear his smile through the phone. ¨I was all alone in the house working on my thesis when the doorbell rang! I'm going to pass you to my mom, she wants to say thank you.¨
So I ended up chatting with FWB's maman for a while who thanked me profusely and insisted that I shouldn't have sent anything and that they were really beautiful. Do I adore this woman? Why yes, yes I do. No one will ever replace my own mom, because let's be real, my mom is one insanely amazing woman (nooooot that I'm biased...) but if I had to pick a second to her, I'd be all for this Frenchwoman.
FWB's maman then passed me back to FWB and we chatted for a bit. He has to write a Master's ¨thesis¨ of about 20 to 40 pages, due January 7th, and just started yesterday: already five pages in. I congratulated him and told him jokingly I hated him seeing as I have to do 100 pages this year. Damn. His is not straight academic research, however, but a study of Rhône valley wines in US and Canadian markets, which is essentially what he was paid to do in his internship. Lucky dog.
¨Do you remember me telling you about that old, eighty-year old woman who lives in my building and never remembers me?¨ I asked him. He said yes and I added, ¨Well, this will make you laugh then. She knocks on my door earlier tonight to say hello and we start chatting. She tells me this time that if I want to stay in France now would be a bad time to leave, though I told her all was up in the air. I added that I have a French boyfriend, and he works in the wine industry. She then exclaimed 'That's perfect! You Americans love to drink wine! You're big drinkers! He can go to California.'¨
FWB and I laughed and then I told him to tiens-moi au courant for his arrival in Paris the evening of January 6th.
All that is standing between me and two solid weeks of FWB in Paris is a week of nanny hell in the French countryside. Wish me luck.
Friday, December 28, 2012
Thursday, December 27, 2012
Christmas in Provence: Part III
The day after Christmas it was just I and FWB in the house. His dad had taken off early to take care of car repairs and his mom had to return to work. I said goodbye to them the night prior. Luckily, it was a beautiful, beautiful crystal clear day out--cold but crisp with a bold blue sky. The mountains, vivid and green, beckoned in the distance.
We ate a quick breakfast of leftover tarte aux courges and apricot juice, with an added jolt of coffee for me. Then it was off again with the GPS, the radio, and nothing but the open road. I had no idea where he was taking me but he slipped on his Ray Bans and we set out beneath the sun.
Eventually we pulled off in St. Rémy de Provence, which is a famous tourist spot in the south known as the place where Vincent Van Gogh was treated in a psychiatric hospital and where Princess Caroline of Monaco stayed for a while after the death of her husband. Needless to say, it was gorgeous, so we parked and wandered the market and the streets, arms around each other's waists. We went into the church and then wandered some more, bought a few madeleines and noix de coco and other pastries for the goûter we were supposed to have with Y and M, Y being FWB's best friend and M his Canadian wife.
Off off off again in the car afterwards to Les Baux de Provence, a gorgeous medieval village preserved high on the large stone massif where it is perched looking out over the valley. And then Mr. FWB got more affectionate and lovey dovey than ever. Arm around my waist, walking hand in hand, kisses on my forehead and cheek. And then he wouldn't stop looking straight into my eyes. He likes to study them, and their colors, tells me how they are green and rimmed with blue and have brown stains, three of them, in the left eye, less in the right.
¨Tes beaux yeux verts,¨ he calls them. We were in the lower remnants of a medieval chateau when he whipped out his camera to take a picture of just my eyes before taking many, many more pictures of the two of us together.
And later in the afternoon he whipped out the word girlfriend on me.
We were walking arms around one another when he was teasing me once again about my Americanity and exclaimed jokingly, and only to us, ¨Excuse ma copine, elle est américaine!¨ with an accent on the American part of the sentence.
So I guess I have my question answered without asking it in the first place: he considers me his girlfriend. But I didn't need him to say it to know it, his body language was enough. After we left the chateau and the fortress remnants we went to the Carrières de Lumière, which is an art exhibit of works projected digitally on the empty stone quarry that was once mined to build the adjacent fortress and chateau. We were in the semi-dark and he'd pull me into a corner to kiss me or he'd pinch my tush affectionately...most of all he just didn't let me go. I can guarantee that throughout the day I had numbers 1, 2, 3, 5, 6, 7, and 12 of this. And I'm not complaining one bit about that!
After leaving Les Baux, we went to Arles. Y and M called to say they were feeling under the weather, so apéro/goûter with them was a no-go. We left Arles for Avignon anyway and passed in briefly to say hello before walking the Christmas market and then sharing a plate of charcuterie and wine...two glasses of different wines which we also shared between the two of us.
Then it was off to the TGV station. I hate goodbyes. I really do. But I held it together this time; he even walked me right up to my gate and we kissed goodbye. Once on the train I thanked him for everything and told him I'd see him in January. He returns to Paris for two weeks for his final seminar for his Master. Then I said goodnight and sweet dreams.
His response?
¨ :-* ¨
We ate a quick breakfast of leftover tarte aux courges and apricot juice, with an added jolt of coffee for me. Then it was off again with the GPS, the radio, and nothing but the open road. I had no idea where he was taking me but he slipped on his Ray Bans and we set out beneath the sun.
Eventually we pulled off in St. Rémy de Provence, which is a famous tourist spot in the south known as the place where Vincent Van Gogh was treated in a psychiatric hospital and where Princess Caroline of Monaco stayed for a while after the death of her husband. Needless to say, it was gorgeous, so we parked and wandered the market and the streets, arms around each other's waists. We went into the church and then wandered some more, bought a few madeleines and noix de coco and other pastries for the goûter we were supposed to have with Y and M, Y being FWB's best friend and M his Canadian wife.
Off off off again in the car afterwards to Les Baux de Provence, a gorgeous medieval village preserved high on the large stone massif where it is perched looking out over the valley. And then Mr. FWB got more affectionate and lovey dovey than ever. Arm around my waist, walking hand in hand, kisses on my forehead and cheek. And then he wouldn't stop looking straight into my eyes. He likes to study them, and their colors, tells me how they are green and rimmed with blue and have brown stains, three of them, in the left eye, less in the right.
¨Tes beaux yeux verts,¨ he calls them. We were in the lower remnants of a medieval chateau when he whipped out his camera to take a picture of just my eyes before taking many, many more pictures of the two of us together.
And later in the afternoon he whipped out the word girlfriend on me.
We were walking arms around one another when he was teasing me once again about my Americanity and exclaimed jokingly, and only to us, ¨Excuse ma copine, elle est américaine!¨ with an accent on the American part of the sentence.
So I guess I have my question answered without asking it in the first place: he considers me his girlfriend. But I didn't need him to say it to know it, his body language was enough. After we left the chateau and the fortress remnants we went to the Carrières de Lumière, which is an art exhibit of works projected digitally on the empty stone quarry that was once mined to build the adjacent fortress and chateau. We were in the semi-dark and he'd pull me into a corner to kiss me or he'd pinch my tush affectionately...most of all he just didn't let me go. I can guarantee that throughout the day I had numbers 1, 2, 3, 5, 6, 7, and 12 of this. And I'm not complaining one bit about that!
After leaving Les Baux, we went to Arles. Y and M called to say they were feeling under the weather, so apéro/goûter with them was a no-go. We left Arles for Avignon anyway and passed in briefly to say hello before walking the Christmas market and then sharing a plate of charcuterie and wine...two glasses of different wines which we also shared between the two of us.
Then it was off to the TGV station. I hate goodbyes. I really do. But I held it together this time; he even walked me right up to my gate and we kissed goodbye. Once on the train I thanked him for everything and told him I'd see him in January. He returns to Paris for two weeks for his final seminar for his Master. Then I said goodnight and sweet dreams.
His response?
¨ :-* ¨
Christmas in Provence: Part II
On Christmas Day we managed to get up in time to shower and be presentable for the mass of family slated to arrive at noon. I was straightening my hair when FWB slipped out, announced, to pick his grandmother up across the street. I also love his grandmother. I came upstairs once dressed and sat next to her on the couch and she told me all about their crazy, eleven day cruise to Malta and the Greek Isles and Rome. We laughed and were having a good time.
Then the rest of the family arrived. I gulped.
There were aunts and great aunts and uncles and great uncles and godsons galore. I could barely keep everyone straight. FWB's mom was wonderful and introduced me to everyone when the title she used struck me.
¨This is FWB's girlfriend,¨ she announced as I stepped forward to bise everyone. Apéro soon followed: canapés of rillettes de saumon and olive tapenade, a lovely rocquefort-fromage blanc amuse-bouche, small puff pastry appetizers, a sharp white wine and thick, round vin doux naturel. I was full before the meal had even started.
Then an hour later the work began.
First course was foie gras with confit d'oignon or fig jam. I opted for the fig jam--it was heavenly with the foie gras! This was followed up by a course of smoked salmon, which was then followed by FWB's mom's amazing truffled (yes. you read that right. TRUFFLES, as in the mushrooms!) omelet, which was followed by FWB's great-aunt's (also his godmother) slow roasted wild board (also delicious) which was then followed by what is called a chapon, or a massively overgrown, roasted chicken. This one was 6 pounds and roasted to perfection. The chapon was accompanied by veggies and dauphined potatoes.
FWB started explaining his possible VIE in New York and his desire to go to the States for a few years. His great aunt chuckled ¨Well, I guess we'll just have to fly to the US for your wedding at this rate!¨
At this point FWB was taking pictures of everyone at the dinner table, including some of his great-uncle and the massive stain he'd made when he knocked over his glass of red wine. Then he sat back down next to me and was recounting his cruise with his grandma and how the he'd made the poor thing hike to the top of a monument and how she'd nearly keeled over with exhaustion. Then it was about nearly missing the train in Rome with her.
¨ When you have ten minutes to get to the train and 1200 feet to go, you have to make grandma move!¨ he exclaimed. Everyone was laughing hard. It made me smile. His family is a family full of love and he was the center of attention recounting story after story. I love this about him.
Then came the cheese course. And then three rounds of dessert including two bûches de Noël, an île flottante, lots and lots of Nougat, and champagne.
After four and a half delicious hours at a table I curled over and wanted to die of happiness.
Then the rest of the family arrived. I gulped.
There were aunts and great aunts and uncles and great uncles and godsons galore. I could barely keep everyone straight. FWB's mom was wonderful and introduced me to everyone when the title she used struck me.
¨This is FWB's girlfriend,¨ she announced as I stepped forward to bise everyone. Apéro soon followed: canapés of rillettes de saumon and olive tapenade, a lovely rocquefort-fromage blanc amuse-bouche, small puff pastry appetizers, a sharp white wine and thick, round vin doux naturel. I was full before the meal had even started.
Then an hour later the work began.
First course was foie gras with confit d'oignon or fig jam. I opted for the fig jam--it was heavenly with the foie gras! This was followed up by a course of smoked salmon, which was then followed by FWB's mom's amazing truffled (yes. you read that right. TRUFFLES, as in the mushrooms!) omelet, which was followed by FWB's great-aunt's (also his godmother) slow roasted wild board (also delicious) which was then followed by what is called a chapon, or a massively overgrown, roasted chicken. This one was 6 pounds and roasted to perfection. The chapon was accompanied by veggies and dauphined potatoes.
FWB started explaining his possible VIE in New York and his desire to go to the States for a few years. His great aunt chuckled ¨Well, I guess we'll just have to fly to the US for your wedding at this rate!¨
At this point FWB was taking pictures of everyone at the dinner table, including some of his great-uncle and the massive stain he'd made when he knocked over his glass of red wine. Then he sat back down next to me and was recounting his cruise with his grandma and how the he'd made the poor thing hike to the top of a monument and how she'd nearly keeled over with exhaustion. Then it was about nearly missing the train in Rome with her.
¨ When you have ten minutes to get to the train and 1200 feet to go, you have to make grandma move!¨ he exclaimed. Everyone was laughing hard. It made me smile. His family is a family full of love and he was the center of attention recounting story after story. I love this about him.
Then came the cheese course. And then three rounds of dessert including two bûches de Noël, an île flottante, lots and lots of Nougat, and champagne.
After four and a half delicious hours at a table I curled over and wanted to die of happiness.
* * *
A while after dessert, FWB's cousin, the one whose birthday he'd been celebrating on Saturday, showed up with her husband and two children: one a boy, aged 8 (and FWB's godson) and the other, a girl, 4, with curly blonde hair and blue eyes. She looked like a porcelain doll. I wanted to scoop the little child in my arms and cuddle her she was so adorable; she ended up in my lap later that night. I ended up sitting on the couch and talking with said cousin and recounting the story of how we met; she had brought up the subject.
¨You're studying in Paris, yes?¨ she asked. I confirmed. I was beginning to suspect FWB had talked about me to her.
FWB's mom eventually joined us with the kids, and she and I and cousin were chatting and having a good time. I was very happy.
* * *
Around 7:30 that night the house cleared out. I helped FWB's parents clean and clear. It was while cleaning that his mom and I were chatting and putting away the crystal (which was used at her own wedding!) when she pulled out the family silver that she hadn't used that evening. It was in need of polishing but still beautiful. She added:
¨We're hoping to give it to FWB someday, when he gets married. But I prefer using the Linox for Christmas, silver is such a hassle to clean, even though it's beautiful.¨
I fingered a silver spoon and a knife and then slid them back into the case before she put it back into the hutch again, half smiling.
I had one last thing to do: talk to my own family. While I had a good time in the South, no one can ever replace my own family. I logged on at 9 pm and we chatted. I miss them.
¨We're hoping to give it to FWB someday, when he gets married. But I prefer using the Linox for Christmas, silver is such a hassle to clean, even though it's beautiful.¨
I fingered a silver spoon and a knife and then slid them back into the case before she put it back into the hutch again, half smiling.
I had one last thing to do: talk to my own family. While I had a good time in the South, no one can ever replace my own family. I logged on at 9 pm and we chatted. I miss them.
Then I dragged the FWB in to meet the fam, mainly my mom and stepdad. He impressed me with his English and we talked with my parents for a while. Seeing as he is invited to California whenever he'd like, he definitely has the stamp of parental approval.
¨He's very charming!¨ my mom exclaimed to me via text message a while later.
I went to bed one very happy woman that night.
Christmas in Provence: Part I
On Saturday night my FWB finally called me back. I was thrilled to hear his voice over the phone. He was at his cousin's 30th birthday party and I'd left him two messages about my possible trip down south. All I needed was for him to tell me the timing worked fine.
¨You didn't think we were going to let you spend Christmas all alone in Paris, did you!?,¨ he exclaimed. I laughed. Then a few minutes later I hung up and bought my fairly pricey, but totally worth it, train ticket for Sunday.
Sunday I ran around town doing laundry and packing and generally preparing for Christmas in Provence. I went to the Conrad Shop again and picked out a tire-bouchon levier with a cap cutter for all the bottles of wine I suspected Mr. FWB would be opening on Christmas.
At 18h30 I made my way to the Gare de Lyon after spending the afternoon with a good American friend making cookies, trying to kill kill kill time and my impatience to see the FWB, when it was finally time to get on the train.
When the train finally rolled into the station at a little after 11 at night, I grabbed my suitcase and descended onto the platform and looked around.
There he was, on the quay, smiling large and wide, waiting for me.
¨You didn't think we were going to let you spend Christmas all alone in Paris, did you!?,¨ he exclaimed. I laughed. Then a few minutes later I hung up and bought my fairly pricey, but totally worth it, train ticket for Sunday.
Sunday I ran around town doing laundry and packing and generally preparing for Christmas in Provence. I went to the Conrad Shop again and picked out a tire-bouchon levier with a cap cutter for all the bottles of wine I suspected Mr. FWB would be opening on Christmas.
At 18h30 I made my way to the Gare de Lyon after spending the afternoon with a good American friend making cookies, trying to kill kill kill time and my impatience to see the FWB, when it was finally time to get on the train.
When the train finally rolled into the station at a little after 11 at night, I grabbed my suitcase and descended onto the platform and looked around.
There he was, on the quay, smiling large and wide, waiting for me.
* * *
We drove back to his village that night and I have to admit I wasn't quite sure how to act around him at first, because I didn't quite know what was going on. He made no mention, whatsoever, of the email I'd sent him. But that didn't stop him from getting cuddly that night. And from death gripping me like I'd been gone for a century and planting kiss after kiss after kiss on my forehead, cheeks, neck. He held my hand and stroked my palm with his thumb and I nearly bawled. I'd been so scared of never seeing him again that I was so relieved to be there, beside him, curled into his arms.
* * *
On Christmas Eve morning we slept in...slept in so much that we woke up in time to shower and eat lunch with his parents! I adore his parents. It was just the four of us and of course, it was delicious. FWB's mama can cook. We had marinated mushrooms and salad to start and then a gratin of ham and endive in a béchamel sauce followed by cheese (the FWB obliges EVERYONE to have the cheese course, beware!) and fruit.
Then he and I took off on more Provincial escapes, including a stop in Vaison-la-Romain to buy cheese (oh, more cheese!) for Christmas day and then to his friends, who make artisanal olive oil and confit d'olive (delish). We were in the Drôme department of France, and the mountains were green, lush and snowcapped.
We zipped through winding mountain passes and then went on to a tiny village called Brantes (see right) and then ended the day near Montbrun in a beautiful city called Montbrun-les-Bains, which was lit up for Christmas (see left).
Then we made our way back to the house for light dinner ( soup, delicious fish and veggies, and pineapple for dessert!) at 8 pm with his parents, ended up watching television in the living room with them until we were all sleepy, then tucked in at about 11 pm for the evening. I was content and smiling like an idiot.
Saturday, December 22, 2012
HOLY F*CK NUGGETS: STORY NOT OVER.
HOLY F*CK NUGGETS. (Thank you BFF for the phrase of the week and please excuse my profanity). It has been a good, long ten days since I've written on this blog. Lots has happened. Mostly lots of me being exhausted. Let's just say nannying went into over drive and included me turning into a temporary servant to move this rich ass family into it's palatial mansion. I'm fried.
I was unpacking boxes at said palatial mansion and so exhausted I was on the verge of tears all afternoon when at around 5:30 this evening my phone rang. Not recognizing the number at first, I let it go to voicemail. Five seconds later it hit me that the area code was FWB's fixed line.
I had more missed calls. I let it all go to voicemail.
You let me wait two weeks to hear from you, you can wait a few hours.
At 7pm I was off and listened to my voicemail finally.
And then I was invited to the South of France at the last minute for Christmas.
By my FWB. Whom I thought fell off the planet again.
So I called him back. It went to voicemail. Then I called his home line, when his mom, whom I love to death, picked up. We chatted for a while and she reiterated that they'd love to have me for Christmas. She told me FWB had just stepped out for his cousin's 30th birthday party and to call his cell again.
Which I did. He called back. We chatted. I bought a train ticket to leave tomorrow night.
I am going to the South of France for Christmas. With FWB. And his family.
I am smiling like an idiot but also unsure of what to think. Smiling like an idiot nonetheless.
And the story continues...
!!!!!
I was unpacking boxes at said palatial mansion and so exhausted I was on the verge of tears all afternoon when at around 5:30 this evening my phone rang. Not recognizing the number at first, I let it go to voicemail. Five seconds later it hit me that the area code was FWB's fixed line.
I had more missed calls. I let it all go to voicemail.
You let me wait two weeks to hear from you, you can wait a few hours.
At 7pm I was off and listened to my voicemail finally.
And then I was invited to the South of France at the last minute for Christmas.
By my FWB. Whom I thought fell off the planet again.
So I called him back. It went to voicemail. Then I called his home line, when his mom, whom I love to death, picked up. We chatted for a while and she reiterated that they'd love to have me for Christmas. She told me FWB had just stepped out for his cousin's 30th birthday party and to call his cell again.
Which I did. He called back. We chatted. I bought a train ticket to leave tomorrow night.
I am going to the South of France for Christmas. With FWB. And his family.
I am smiling like an idiot but also unsure of what to think. Smiling like an idiot nonetheless.
And the story continues...
!!!!!
Wednesday, December 12, 2012
The Week After the Fallout
This week has been rather sluggish. On Tuesday, I went to lunch at El Nopal (highly recommended!) and then coffee at Ten Belles (adorable, trendy little coffeehouse that opened recently near the Canal St. Martin) with my friend Ms. Tortillas, whom I adore. She knows where to find real Mexican in this city and my poor, spice deprived soul has been craving a good, non-Chipotle burrito for weeks. We needed to catch up as is. Caffeinated beverages helped.
Naturally, we were pouring over details of what went down with the FWB when she told me her own story about a Frenchie. He was, in fact, the reason she moved to Paris. And then she related his wishy-washy games and his excuses. About how it was hard to believe he could ever been an ass, but how he, indeed, turned out to be one.
I cannot believe that my FWB could possibly be a jerk.
Did he let me down? Yes.
Did he shock me a bit? Yes.
Is he an ass? He can't be.
As Miss Tortillas pointed out, however, ¨He was exactly what you needed when you needed it. You were rather down and out, but he showed you what kind of guy you deserve. You deserve to be treated that well and you deserve someone who will commit to you instead of playing you. He showed you what could be possible. So don't settle for anything less.¨
She has a point. But until proven otherwise, I cannot think him an ass. I'd at least like to give him the benefit of the ¨you're running scared,¨ or ¨you're really just not that into me and can't say it to my face,¨ doubt.
Am I going to count on hearing from him in January when he's in Paris for his final Masters seminar? No. Because if I count on that and he doesn't get in touch, it'll only break my heart. I'm preparing myself not to hear from him at all, because then I won't be disappointed.
I cannot think him a deliberate ass. A least for my own sake. Oh well. For the time being he is somewhere cruising along the Mediterranean with his adorable grandmother.
The Young Diplomat is pretty persistent about seeing me again. He's been texting all week. He's nice and all, but it's still just platonic on my end. Pretty sure it's going to stay that way. Schedule permitting, we'll do lunch next week. Who knows?
Which meant last night at some ungodly hour I got a text message that went something like this:
¨I talked about Dangerous Liaisons today and it made me think of you. Bisous.¨
From Monsieur Lawyer.
But drifting in and out of sleep as is, I rolled back over and went back to slumberland. Then I woke up a few hours later thinking I'd dreamed it. Pulled out my Blackberry to see that I hadn't.
Another remise en question.
Is this you messaging me because you can't play anyone else? Or because you genuinely miss me and want to see me? Because last time I saw you your actions made it pretty clear that you had little time for me in your schedule, that you were hesitant to see just me instead of playing your field of I don't-know-how-many-women, and that you had no interested in letting me get to know your friends. I don't know about you, buddy, but that screams one thing to me: I'm just a pretty face you want to try and seduce, not someone you want to get to know or whose mind you want to appreciate. And I just don't play like that.
I cannot tell if you genuinely want to see me, or if this is just some stupid bait to try and reel me back in. I don't even know if I should respond to you. To say that I'm not thinking about it would be lying, but I'm vary cautious about you.
Oh 2013, I do not know what you have in store for me, but it's going to be...interesting....to say the least.
Naturally, we were pouring over details of what went down with the FWB when she told me her own story about a Frenchie. He was, in fact, the reason she moved to Paris. And then she related his wishy-washy games and his excuses. About how it was hard to believe he could ever been an ass, but how he, indeed, turned out to be one.
I cannot believe that my FWB could possibly be a jerk.
Did he let me down? Yes.
Did he shock me a bit? Yes.
Is he an ass? He can't be.
As Miss Tortillas pointed out, however, ¨He was exactly what you needed when you needed it. You were rather down and out, but he showed you what kind of guy you deserve. You deserve to be treated that well and you deserve someone who will commit to you instead of playing you. He showed you what could be possible. So don't settle for anything less.¨
She has a point. But until proven otherwise, I cannot think him an ass. I'd at least like to give him the benefit of the ¨you're running scared,¨ or ¨you're really just not that into me and can't say it to my face,¨ doubt.
Am I going to count on hearing from him in January when he's in Paris for his final Masters seminar? No. Because if I count on that and he doesn't get in touch, it'll only break my heart. I'm preparing myself not to hear from him at all, because then I won't be disappointed.
I cannot think him a deliberate ass. A least for my own sake. Oh well. For the time being he is somewhere cruising along the Mediterranean with his adorable grandmother.
* * *
The Young Diplomat is pretty persistent about seeing me again. He's been texting all week. He's nice and all, but it's still just platonic on my end. Pretty sure it's going to stay that way. Schedule permitting, we'll do lunch next week. Who knows?
* * *
My cell phone and I are glued at the hip, and it's become a bad habit of mine. Mostly due to my job, as I was never this attached to my phone before working for this family. I used to let things go, take my time, not jump at every ring. But now I've turned into this.Which meant last night at some ungodly hour I got a text message that went something like this:
¨I talked about Dangerous Liaisons today and it made me think of you. Bisous.¨
From Monsieur Lawyer.
But drifting in and out of sleep as is, I rolled back over and went back to slumberland. Then I woke up a few hours later thinking I'd dreamed it. Pulled out my Blackberry to see that I hadn't.
Another remise en question.
Is this you messaging me because you can't play anyone else? Or because you genuinely miss me and want to see me? Because last time I saw you your actions made it pretty clear that you had little time for me in your schedule, that you were hesitant to see just me instead of playing your field of I don't-know-how-many-women, and that you had no interested in letting me get to know your friends. I don't know about you, buddy, but that screams one thing to me: I'm just a pretty face you want to try and seduce, not someone you want to get to know or whose mind you want to appreciate. And I just don't play like that.
I cannot tell if you genuinely want to see me, or if this is just some stupid bait to try and reel me back in. I don't even know if I should respond to you. To say that I'm not thinking about it would be lying, but I'm vary cautious about you.
* * *
Tomorrow is Eman's birthday. We'll see how he fares. I can't be here to celebrate because I'm off to Fontainebleau this weekend...le sigh. How is it December already?Oh 2013, I do not know what you have in store for me, but it's going to be...interesting....to say the least.
Monday, December 10, 2012
Remise en question
On Saturday night, afraid of being alone, I accepted an invitation to go to the movies with E and one of his friends. When I'm alone in moods like I've been in the past week, I tend to brood, and brooding gets me no where positive no where fast.
It's been a long, hard road fraught with self discovery since college for me to come to the conclusion that being alone, which is an art I have mastered, is not the purpose of life and will not lead me to happiness, no matter how upset or angry I may be with the world, no matter how much my heart may be hurting: isolation is not the answer. It just leads me to bitter places with bitter thoughts. I credit this epiphany for my recent and scary descent from my Ivory Tower: for a good swarth of my young twenties I sincerely believed that my best way to handle life was simple not to live it but to plan it from high above my tower, safely surrounded by my books and my literary theory, where no one, no man on earth, could hurt me.
This is not living, I decided. Then I made like Rapunzel I descended and set foot on the ground for the first time.
Life is messy, but there is consolation in knowing its messy for everyone.
So I went to this movie with E that ended at midnight. His friend had come on her motorcycle so we waited in the cold while she revved the engine and I did my own shiver dance while puffing vapor clouds out of my mouth. The metro I needed to get back to my studio and the way to E's apartment are one in the same ( we happen to share a metro line and are separated by only three stops, which made dating when we dated convenient ), so I walked with him.
¨Have you eaten dinner yet?¨ he asked.
¨No, but I'm not that hungry.¨
He was quiet and I followed him with my hands in my pockets towards his place, which would eventually lead me one way to the métro. He stopped at the intersection and pointed out that going to said metro stop was shorter if I veered left than followed him straight.
¨Don't you remember? It's the way I walked you after our first date.¨
And yet more references to us dating. Us dating was a joke. We dated for a month before I left for the summer to nanny for two months, and then I didn't know if we were together or not. The French don't do the DTR (Define The Relationship). Then, when I promptly returned the first week of September, after a summer of e-mails and phone calls, he ended it. I don't know about you, but I hardly consider that serious dating. He never even really gave it the chance to see where it would go. I was ready to see where it would go in September, but he didn't want that, and now I'm glad he didn't.
¨Yes, yes I do remember. But I figured I'd pass by your place to see you off and then go to the metro,¨ I said. ¨ You realize that I do know the way from your place, I've done it on my own enough times.¨ I tried to play it off with casual humor. Cracking jokes is one of my biggest defense mechanisms.
I said nothing more of the sort about us dating. I do not say things about us dating. I do not understand why he feels the need to bring us dating up. Or why he feels the need to sometimes jokingly call me one of his Ex's. How can you call a girl you barely dated your Ex?
We were silent and when we entered the station, I expected him to bise me goodbye and leave, but instead he went to the quay with me and waited for the train to see me off. When it came I promptly and platonically planted a kiss on his cheek and hopped on the métro.
I sat down and didn't look back until the last minute, only to see him looking back at me as he walked slowly away, towards the entrance, with the same sort of lingering gaze he gave me the night we said goodbye in July, right before I left for the summer....
It's been a long, hard road fraught with self discovery since college for me to come to the conclusion that being alone, which is an art I have mastered, is not the purpose of life and will not lead me to happiness, no matter how upset or angry I may be with the world, no matter how much my heart may be hurting: isolation is not the answer. It just leads me to bitter places with bitter thoughts. I credit this epiphany for my recent and scary descent from my Ivory Tower: for a good swarth of my young twenties I sincerely believed that my best way to handle life was simple not to live it but to plan it from high above my tower, safely surrounded by my books and my literary theory, where no one, no man on earth, could hurt me.
This is not living, I decided. Then I made like Rapunzel I descended and set foot on the ground for the first time.
Life is messy, but there is consolation in knowing its messy for everyone.
So I went to this movie with E that ended at midnight. His friend had come on her motorcycle so we waited in the cold while she revved the engine and I did my own shiver dance while puffing vapor clouds out of my mouth. The metro I needed to get back to my studio and the way to E's apartment are one in the same ( we happen to share a metro line and are separated by only three stops, which made dating when we dated convenient ), so I walked with him.
¨Have you eaten dinner yet?¨ he asked.
¨No, but I'm not that hungry.¨
He was quiet and I followed him with my hands in my pockets towards his place, which would eventually lead me one way to the métro. He stopped at the intersection and pointed out that going to said metro stop was shorter if I veered left than followed him straight.
¨Don't you remember? It's the way I walked you after our first date.¨
And yet more references to us dating. Us dating was a joke. We dated for a month before I left for the summer to nanny for two months, and then I didn't know if we were together or not. The French don't do the DTR (Define The Relationship). Then, when I promptly returned the first week of September, after a summer of e-mails and phone calls, he ended it. I don't know about you, but I hardly consider that serious dating. He never even really gave it the chance to see where it would go. I was ready to see where it would go in September, but he didn't want that, and now I'm glad he didn't.
¨Yes, yes I do remember. But I figured I'd pass by your place to see you off and then go to the metro,¨ I said. ¨ You realize that I do know the way from your place, I've done it on my own enough times.¨ I tried to play it off with casual humor. Cracking jokes is one of my biggest defense mechanisms.
I said nothing more of the sort about us dating. I do not say things about us dating. I do not understand why he feels the need to bring us dating up. Or why he feels the need to sometimes jokingly call me one of his Ex's. How can you call a girl you barely dated your Ex?
We were silent and when we entered the station, I expected him to bise me goodbye and leave, but instead he went to the quay with me and waited for the train to see me off. When it came I promptly and platonically planted a kiss on his cheek and hopped on the métro.
I sat down and didn't look back until the last minute, only to see him looking back at me as he walked slowly away, towards the entrance, with the same sort of lingering gaze he gave me the night we said goodbye in July, right before I left for the summer....
Saturday, December 8, 2012
L'Oubli
On Friday morning, I had another call from an unknown number. I picked up the phone as quickly as I could, but only to silence. I held on to the line for about a minute saying ¨Allô, allô,¨ to a presence-less phantom, hoping it would be him, and then I finally hung up. Nothing.
That afternoon, I had a second call from an unknown number. Thinking I wouldn't let the phantom escape me again, I gripped the phone. It was not him, but an acquaintance, Chloé--whom I know from my Diplomat. It had been a while since we'd talked, but when we had met, she wanted to set me up with someone who lived in Annecy and worked for the UN. He was older, she said, forty-two. But I hadn't heard from her since we met.
¨Are you still single?¨ she asked through the phone. I felt a soupir rise and fall in my chest, deep and heavy. I replied in the affirmative, then added:
¨Was it you that tried calling me on Wednesday? Three times on an unknown number?¨
¨No,¨ she said. Another heart drop. I had hoped to sweet baby Jesus it had been Chloé, that my FWB had just left the silence between us, hadn't tried to get a hold of me at all. I still do not know if it was him or not. Chloé then explained that there was a young State Department officer that had arrived ten days ago, another lawyer, this time a tax lawyer, looking to figure out the social scene in Paris. I gave her the green light to connect us through e-mail, shot him a message, and he called me to set up dinner and drinks that evening.
We went to Les Editeurs at the Carrefour de l'Odéon, and the first order of business was wine. Looking at wine menus is painful for me right now, because I want to forget forget forget forget the hills of the Vaucluse, the luscious curves of the Vallée du Rhône, the land of these ruby red wines
that pour their souls into thin stemmed glasses on tables at restaurants like these. The land of the FWB. There are three wine shops or so on the rue du Bac and the rue de Grenelle and I pass them as fast as I can, I cannot bear to look at the bottles.
When the young diplomat was given his glass, I showed him how to swirl and smell for maximum effect. I cannot let go of these gestures anymore.
Instead I tried focusing on dinner. I had a delicious pavé de saumon with sweet mashed potatoes and for dessert, French toasted brioche with a caramel sauce and one tiny scoop of caramel icecream. This was followed by drinks at the Pub St. Germain (a kir royal au cassis for me thank you). This young lawyer was nice, but not my cup of tea. And it was completely platonic anyway, but nice to not be alone on a Friday night in my studio. I needed distraction.
We then wandered near the Fontaine St. Michel looking for a pub he had been to earlier in the week but whose address he could no longer remember, which lead us to cross the river to the Marais where I introduced him to the Lizard Lounge, which only makes me miss my adopted uncle Diplomat. When days were bad, or not so bad too, we'd get a drink and chat there. I cannot forget the people and places I hold dear, my mind conjures them immemorial.
This has been a long, rough week as an ex-pat: it's an emotional roller coaster, because when the going gets tough I want nothing more than a hug from the people who are farthest away from me. When it's really bad it makes me consider moving home, but I know if I just threw in the towel and got on a plane, I would not be content with myself either. I love my loves, but France is also one of my biggest loves. Why cannot I be content with simple things? I will never erase this country from my mind.
At the Lizard Lounge, the show really got started. The Young Diplomat ordered us several rounds of shots and I had a mixed drink, but I also have no tolerance, and France has slimmed me to the point that I have even less weight on me to hold back the alkie. I barely drink as is, which doesn't help either. But I wanted to forget forget forget.
We left the Lizard Lounge towards one thirty and then found our way back on the métro to Café Mabillon, where we made the ever wise choice of ordering absinthe. And mojitos. I was done in for. I wanted to erase my mind completely. My mind floated elsewhere, detached from my body and left me empty eyed and aloof. But this Young Diplomat was hitting on me like none other, though I was not responding to his advances.
¨You have these outstanding eyes,¨ he said. And all I could think was how FWB pulled me aside in Carpentras while we walked hand in hand and looked me straight in the eyes with a calm, soothing force and told me how green my eyes were, with specs of brown-ish red in them, he studied them, plumbed them nimbly, told me how truly beautiful they were. I heard his voice and the echo of his très joli in my mind.
¨What are you thinking about?¨ he asked.
This is the single dominion every human wants over another, the barriers that separate us, the one defense and sovereignty we have: no other human being can ever have access to our conscience, we are encased separately in bodies that close our thoughts off to the world. And yet this is what we want so desperately: to know what the other is thinking, the way Marcel wants to know Albertine's mind and never will.
¨Nothing,¨ I replied. ¨I'm drunk.¨
Oublies. Oublies. Oublies.
Tears were rolling lightly down my cheeks, but in the dim light were hard to see. I wiped them conspicuously. I'd been messaging my BFF in California about how I messed up, about how I pushed the FWB too far, how I really felt something for him, that all I could do was cry. She told me not to cry, to put my big girl pants on, to move on.
¨I'm trying,¨ I said. ¨I hate this.¨
¨I know you are. It sucks but it's the best thing you can do. You actually care when stuff ends.¨
And in my drunken stupor I added: ¨I just want FWBBBBBBB.¨
Young Diplomat asked me what I was thinking about again. I replied in the same. But eyes were probably floating up to thoughts of what I have allowed to escape me, because I did not have the patience to let things lie, to breathe.
But silence speaks louder than words.
And now for the silence of l'oubli.
That afternoon, I had a second call from an unknown number. Thinking I wouldn't let the phantom escape me again, I gripped the phone. It was not him, but an acquaintance, Chloé--whom I know from my Diplomat. It had been a while since we'd talked, but when we had met, she wanted to set me up with someone who lived in Annecy and worked for the UN. He was older, she said, forty-two. But I hadn't heard from her since we met.
¨Are you still single?¨ she asked through the phone. I felt a soupir rise and fall in my chest, deep and heavy. I replied in the affirmative, then added:
¨Was it you that tried calling me on Wednesday? Three times on an unknown number?¨
¨No,¨ she said. Another heart drop. I had hoped to sweet baby Jesus it had been Chloé, that my FWB had just left the silence between us, hadn't tried to get a hold of me at all. I still do not know if it was him or not. Chloé then explained that there was a young State Department officer that had arrived ten days ago, another lawyer, this time a tax lawyer, looking to figure out the social scene in Paris. I gave her the green light to connect us through e-mail, shot him a message, and he called me to set up dinner and drinks that evening.
We went to Les Editeurs at the Carrefour de l'Odéon, and the first order of business was wine. Looking at wine menus is painful for me right now, because I want to forget forget forget forget the hills of the Vaucluse, the luscious curves of the Vallée du Rhône, the land of these ruby red wines
that pour their souls into thin stemmed glasses on tables at restaurants like these. The land of the FWB. There are three wine shops or so on the rue du Bac and the rue de Grenelle and I pass them as fast as I can, I cannot bear to look at the bottles.
When the young diplomat was given his glass, I showed him how to swirl and smell for maximum effect. I cannot let go of these gestures anymore.
Instead I tried focusing on dinner. I had a delicious pavé de saumon with sweet mashed potatoes and for dessert, French toasted brioche with a caramel sauce and one tiny scoop of caramel icecream. This was followed by drinks at the Pub St. Germain (a kir royal au cassis for me thank you). This young lawyer was nice, but not my cup of tea. And it was completely platonic anyway, but nice to not be alone on a Friday night in my studio. I needed distraction.
We then wandered near the Fontaine St. Michel looking for a pub he had been to earlier in the week but whose address he could no longer remember, which lead us to cross the river to the Marais where I introduced him to the Lizard Lounge, which only makes me miss my adopted uncle Diplomat. When days were bad, or not so bad too, we'd get a drink and chat there. I cannot forget the people and places I hold dear, my mind conjures them immemorial.
This has been a long, rough week as an ex-pat: it's an emotional roller coaster, because when the going gets tough I want nothing more than a hug from the people who are farthest away from me. When it's really bad it makes me consider moving home, but I know if I just threw in the towel and got on a plane, I would not be content with myself either. I love my loves, but France is also one of my biggest loves. Why cannot I be content with simple things? I will never erase this country from my mind.
At the Lizard Lounge, the show really got started. The Young Diplomat ordered us several rounds of shots and I had a mixed drink, but I also have no tolerance, and France has slimmed me to the point that I have even less weight on me to hold back the alkie. I barely drink as is, which doesn't help either. But I wanted to forget forget forget.
We left the Lizard Lounge towards one thirty and then found our way back on the métro to Café Mabillon, where we made the ever wise choice of ordering absinthe. And mojitos. I was done in for. I wanted to erase my mind completely. My mind floated elsewhere, detached from my body and left me empty eyed and aloof. But this Young Diplomat was hitting on me like none other, though I was not responding to his advances.
¨You have these outstanding eyes,¨ he said. And all I could think was how FWB pulled me aside in Carpentras while we walked hand in hand and looked me straight in the eyes with a calm, soothing force and told me how green my eyes were, with specs of brown-ish red in them, he studied them, plumbed them nimbly, told me how truly beautiful they were. I heard his voice and the echo of his très joli in my mind.
¨What are you thinking about?¨ he asked.
This is the single dominion every human wants over another, the barriers that separate us, the one defense and sovereignty we have: no other human being can ever have access to our conscience, we are encased separately in bodies that close our thoughts off to the world. And yet this is what we want so desperately: to know what the other is thinking, the way Marcel wants to know Albertine's mind and never will.
¨Nothing,¨ I replied. ¨I'm drunk.¨
Oublies. Oublies. Oublies.
Tears were rolling lightly down my cheeks, but in the dim light were hard to see. I wiped them conspicuously. I'd been messaging my BFF in California about how I messed up, about how I pushed the FWB too far, how I really felt something for him, that all I could do was cry. She told me not to cry, to put my big girl pants on, to move on.
¨I'm trying,¨ I said. ¨I hate this.¨
¨I know you are. It sucks but it's the best thing you can do. You actually care when stuff ends.¨
And in my drunken stupor I added: ¨I just want FWBBBBBBB.¨
Young Diplomat asked me what I was thinking about again. I replied in the same. But eyes were probably floating up to thoughts of what I have allowed to escape me, because I did not have the patience to let things lie, to breathe.
But silence speaks louder than words.
And now for the silence of l'oubli.
Thursday, December 6, 2012
Story Over.
I responded to the FWB's e-mail. I told him that after thinking about it , and to be completely honest, this was where I stood:
1. That in my opinion what we have is special and rare.
2. For me neither this isn't the best time to get involved, but that in life there is never a perfect time
to get into a relationship.
3. That I thought he gave me a bunch of excuses for why what we have can't work right now. That I didn't care what was going on in my life and that I was taking the risk to tell him this because it is worth it to me, and he is worth it to me.
4. That if he still really preferred to let this all go, I would understand and wouldn't hold it against him because I only want the best for him, but that I wasn't going to give up for nothing.
That day, while at work, I was called three times by an unknown number, but couldn't pick up. Thinking it was him, as he's called me before on a fixed line from an unknown number, I texted his cell to tell him that I would be at work until 8 in the evening and to call around then.
Nothing last night.
Today around lunch time I called his cell. It went straight to voicemail. Left a message asking if it was he who called me and to call me back. Nothing. Called once more a few hours later, went straight to voicemail, and this time I didn't leave a message.
I suppose I have my answer, that maybe I shouldn't have pushed him in the first place, but the fear of losing him is what moved me the most, so I did what I did, and I can't take it back now.
I suppose this time the story really is over.
1. That in my opinion what we have is special and rare.
2. For me neither this isn't the best time to get involved, but that in life there is never a perfect time
to get into a relationship.
3. That I thought he gave me a bunch of excuses for why what we have can't work right now. That I didn't care what was going on in my life and that I was taking the risk to tell him this because it is worth it to me, and he is worth it to me.
4. That if he still really preferred to let this all go, I would understand and wouldn't hold it against him because I only want the best for him, but that I wasn't going to give up for nothing.
That day, while at work, I was called three times by an unknown number, but couldn't pick up. Thinking it was him, as he's called me before on a fixed line from an unknown number, I texted his cell to tell him that I would be at work until 8 in the evening and to call around then.
Nothing last night.
Today around lunch time I called his cell. It went straight to voicemail. Left a message asking if it was he who called me and to call me back. Nothing. Called once more a few hours later, went straight to voicemail, and this time I didn't leave a message.
I suppose I have my answer, that maybe I shouldn't have pushed him in the first place, but the fear of losing him is what moved me the most, so I did what I did, and I can't take it back now.
I suppose this time the story really is over.
Wednesday, December 5, 2012
When You Got a Good Thing...
You don't let it go.
So I'm taking control and I'm calling bullshit.
I'm taking the leap and I'm telling the FWB that I don't buy his laundry list of excuses, nor am I going to cede to mine. There is never a one hundred percent perfect time in life to start a relationship.
After thinking about it for a bit, I'm pretty sure he is running scared.
I'm telling him that what we have is something special and that I'm willing to take the risk of seeing where it goes.
And if he still says no, at least I will have taken the risk. I will have taken control and I will know where I stand instead of letting him go and wishing that he would come back without ever knowing if he will.
So deep breath.
Here I go.
So I'm taking control and I'm calling bullshit.
I'm taking the leap and I'm telling the FWB that I don't buy his laundry list of excuses, nor am I going to cede to mine. There is never a one hundred percent perfect time in life to start a relationship.
After thinking about it for a bit, I'm pretty sure he is running scared.
I'm telling him that what we have is something special and that I'm willing to take the risk of seeing where it goes.
And if he still says no, at least I will have taken the risk. I will have taken control and I will know where I stand instead of letting him go and wishing that he would come back without ever knowing if he will.
So deep breath.
Here I go.
Tuesday, December 4, 2012
He's Just Not That Into You
Tonight I am struggling with the idea that most women struggle with, the one idea we all hate admitting, the one we are scared of concluding when we start seeing someone we really like: maybe he's just not that in to me.
I cooped up in my studio all day working on a presentation for a theatre seminar and then had class from 5 to 7:30 tonight. When I walked out and finally checked my phone, I had a text from E asking if I wanted to go see a movie tonight with him. I see him maybe once a week now, strictly platonically, as I have lost any and all sense of regret about what happened between us. Last Wednesday night we could be found on the boulevard Montparnasse at L'Atélier getting a drink when he brought up the subject of Le Coup de Coeur, the woman for whom, as he declared to me in September, he had stronger feelings. This doesn't bother me, as I've become accustomed to it. What did surprise me though was the fact that he told me he had seen her again, but now had almost no feelings for her.
¨I don't know if I can fall in love with her again, and I don't want to make her leave the guy
she's with when I'm not sure I can get back to where I was with her.¨
How. Effing. Stereotypical.
He explained that he'd been so turned upside down by the craziness of his last Ex, the batshit insane one, that he felt incapable of having romantic feelings again for Le Coup de Coeur.
Why do I care. Why am I listening to this?
It started pouring out and then we finished our drinks and went back to his place and made pasta. I was helping him sort through photos for an international competition in which he was determined to participate and he had to slim down his selection from 400 to 10 photos. After eating I was in food coma in his office and falling asleep on the spare bed when he brought up the subject of Le Coup de Coeur again. About how he isn't sure about feeling anything for her, about how he is numb to her now. I jokingly told him I had a crisis in May too where I was over dating and venting one night with my Diplomat about how I was OVER guys.
¨And that's why you ended up dating me a month later, right?¨
Sometimes he says things about how we dated, or about how we were together, that make it seem like he now regrets his decision to end ¨us.¨ I do not want him to regret that decision, because I don't regret it myself. I do not bring up the fact we dated for a short period of time, never have after it happened. I haven't needed to because it's over and after all I have been through with him listening to his horror story of a Batshit Insane Ex these past few months, I have no desire to ever date him again.
So I changed the subject to school and job hunt for me. About how I do not want to spend the greater part of my young life missing out on it, the way E has...the man is a beyond brilliant engineer but all he did is work in his twenties. And tell women like me, like the way the FWB did, that this ¨point in his life was not suitable for a relationship.¨ So what did those women do? They moved on with their lives and found other great guys.
Needless to say, at 36, unmarried, and not seeing anyone, E seems to be regretting some of his decisions now, especially the ones about telling a woman or two he couldn't start anything because the ¨timing¨ wasn't right.
I cooped up in my studio all day working on a presentation for a theatre seminar and then had class from 5 to 7:30 tonight. When I walked out and finally checked my phone, I had a text from E asking if I wanted to go see a movie tonight with him. I see him maybe once a week now, strictly platonically, as I have lost any and all sense of regret about what happened between us. Last Wednesday night we could be found on the boulevard Montparnasse at L'Atélier getting a drink when he brought up the subject of Le Coup de Coeur, the woman for whom, as he declared to me in September, he had stronger feelings. This doesn't bother me, as I've become accustomed to it. What did surprise me though was the fact that he told me he had seen her again, but now had almost no feelings for her.
¨I don't know if I can fall in love with her again, and I don't want to make her leave the guy
she's with when I'm not sure I can get back to where I was with her.¨
How. Effing. Stereotypical.
He explained that he'd been so turned upside down by the craziness of his last Ex, the batshit insane one, that he felt incapable of having romantic feelings again for Le Coup de Coeur.
Why do I care. Why am I listening to this?
It started pouring out and then we finished our drinks and went back to his place and made pasta. I was helping him sort through photos for an international competition in which he was determined to participate and he had to slim down his selection from 400 to 10 photos. After eating I was in food coma in his office and falling asleep on the spare bed when he brought up the subject of Le Coup de Coeur again. About how he isn't sure about feeling anything for her, about how he is numb to her now. I jokingly told him I had a crisis in May too where I was over dating and venting one night with my Diplomat about how I was OVER guys.
¨And that's why you ended up dating me a month later, right?¨
Sometimes he says things about how we dated, or about how we were together, that make it seem like he now regrets his decision to end ¨us.¨ I do not want him to regret that decision, because I don't regret it myself. I do not bring up the fact we dated for a short period of time, never have after it happened. I haven't needed to because it's over and after all I have been through with him listening to his horror story of a Batshit Insane Ex these past few months, I have no desire to ever date him again.
So I changed the subject to school and job hunt for me. About how I do not want to spend the greater part of my young life missing out on it, the way E has...the man is a beyond brilliant engineer but all he did is work in his twenties. And tell women like me, like the way the FWB did, that this ¨point in his life was not suitable for a relationship.¨ So what did those women do? They moved on with their lives and found other great guys.
Needless to say, at 36, unmarried, and not seeing anyone, E seems to be regretting some of his decisions now, especially the ones about telling a woman or two he couldn't start anything because the ¨timing¨ wasn't right.
* * *
Somebody answer me this: what is it with guys and timing? Is it a valid excuse or is it a lame way of letting a girl down? I'm leaning towards lame excuse, mostly because I feel like if he's really into you, he'll make it work. Hell, I know I'm the same way. If I am into a guy enough, I'll do whatever I have to to make it work.
I guess I am sad because I was at that point and FWB wasn't. I read him wrong and he just wasn't as interested as I thought he was. Is my assessment totally off? I don't know.
I just hope he doesn't turn out like E, work his ass off his entire 20s to build his import-expert business, and miss out on other things in life. Work, as I have learned and am beginning to see, isn't everything.
* * *
The truth is also that Monsieur Lawyer just wasn't that into me. Two weeks ago he wanted to see me and I confirmed with him that Wednesday morning, but I didn't even get a text message yes or no. Nothing. Nada. Not even an apology text for forgetting the next morning.
Once I was in Avignon, he texted and told me to update him about how my weekend was going. I didn't respond. I was pissed. I was already uneasy with him and here he was not making much of an effort. Call me a judgmental, overbearing, not-taking-into-account-something-might-have-happened beezy, but like I said, I was over it.
I didn't respond.
He tried chatting on Facebook.
Yeah bucko, wonder how many other girls you're chatting with on Facebook.
Yep, I was being stupid and probably very immature by not responding. He text messaged me two days later with: ¨My beautiful American, I'm beginning to get desperate because you're not responding.¨
I did not respond. Instead, I unfriended him on Facebook.
Sorry bud. I'm not impressed. Not after the weekend I had in Provence. And I'm just not that into you anymore.
If guys can pull that crap, so can women.
* * *
As of right now, I don't know what will come of the FWB. I don't even know anymore if he was ever that into me in the first place. I am in a place of doubt.
So here I am, in my little Paris studio, thrown from the horse, with no desire in the immediate future to get back on it. I'm a little tired of dating, a little tired of this non-committal wishy washy I can't make up my mind bullshit, and disappointed that I finally felt like I had a good one then BAM. BFF, when are we buying the beach mansion and the cats? Don't forget the fully stocked bar.
To all the other men out there, here's what I say: I'm not impressed, and I'm just not that into you.
You had better step up your game.
Monday, December 3, 2012
A Sorta Fairytale: story over or chapter closed?
Monday night as I lay in bed, about to doze off to sleep, I was brainwhirling. I returned to my studio Sunday night to find no trace of my FWB. I had not been able to return to Paris early enough on Sunday to say goodbye as I had planned: the dad of my girl charges cancelled taking them to a production of Cinderella in Paris on Sunday afternoon, which meant I had to bring them back on the train at 17h30 as per usual, and which meant I did not get home until 19h. I had text messaged my FWB to warn him of this and to tell him to leave the keys in my mailbox if he had to leave before I returned.
Keys were in the box, but then nothing. No text, no thank you. I was stunned. I tried not to read into it, but I am, after all, a girl, and a trained analyst at that. I tried to get it out of my system, along with my intense sense of anxiety about it all, by skyping friends and family on Sunday night. Until three am. And then I outprocessed some more at weekly apéro with one of my good American friends here on Monday evening.
But on this Monday night, on the edge of sleep, my blackberry beeped. I had an e-mail. I figured it would be one of my many LinkedIn notifications, as I'm now subscribed to five bajillion French employment networking groups that send me messages allllll dayyyy long.
Wrong.
It was from my FWB. He thanked me for letting him stay at my place again this weekend, updated me on his week ahead: finished his required full time internship for his Master this week, has a day long interview for a job in France on Wednesday, another skype interview for a VIE in the States, and plans to finish for the cruise he's taking with his grand-mère, as they leave next Monday. Then add finishing his Master's thesis, more networking, and all the CVs and cover letter writing that entails.
To this he added things I have heard from many other gentlemen before:
¨You are a super sweet, thoughtful, and charming girl...¨ ...and then came the BUT...¨ but I realize that I'm not at a suitable point right now to get into a relationship with all these changes and projects to come.¨
At that point I started bawling. Not this again not this again not the BUT not the BUT not the BUT. Started crying harder than the Parisian rain which is currently hailing down upon the 7th arrondissement and torrentially soaking the courtyard off my studio. Dripping dripping down the pipes and in the gutters like the tears on my cheeks.
The BUT is gut wrenching. The BUT is a hard pill to swallow. I'm a firm believer that if a guy is into you and wants to make it happen, he'll make it happen, and everything else is just an excuse.
I am now rethinking that. Rethinking it mostly because I wonder if for this instance, the but really is a legitimate BUT. I was at the end of many BUTS in college (no pun intended), about guys changing jobs and moving appartments and how it was just too much to handle for a relationship, and I always considered it as the nice, gentle way to let me down. To say ¨hey i like you, but not THAT much, because you're not worth the effort its going to take to be with you.¨ However, it is hard for me to believe that the FWB's but is like all the others I have received before, given the past two weeks.
I cannot be mad. I am not mad at all. I am overwhelmingly sad. I am sad because I feel like for once, truly for once, what I have with this one is not ordinary, it is nothing even in the range of ordinary, and I am (was?) willing to risk seeing where it could go. He is worth it to me. It's the not having the chance to see where it could go that kills me.
He then added, in a rather existentialist and open ended way, and much like he did last year when he left:
¨ But who knows? In life all can change. I will stay in close contact with you, it'd be my pleasure. You will always be welcome in the South if you ever want to get some sun ;-) ¨
Then the tears came falling harder. They fell harder because I am not mad at all. I am recovering from a punch to the heart, a punch delivered not by a calculating young fool, but by someone who succeeded, through his sincerity and goodness, to steal my heart. He is not a jerk or an ass or anything near it at all.
I responded after a bit because I needed to, for my own sake. I needed to tell him that I understood, because I too am trying to figure out where my life is going. What country it's going to involve. How he is someone special to me. How I only want the best for him and want to say in touch as well. He made it so sweet.
Writing is also how I process. It's more than half the reason I am writing this right now...this Cinderella had to write the suite of the now sorta-fairytale.
And so the grand question is this: is this simply a chapter closed or is the whole story over?
You tell me.
Keys were in the box, but then nothing. No text, no thank you. I was stunned. I tried not to read into it, but I am, after all, a girl, and a trained analyst at that. I tried to get it out of my system, along with my intense sense of anxiety about it all, by skyping friends and family on Sunday night. Until three am. And then I outprocessed some more at weekly apéro with one of my good American friends here on Monday evening.
But on this Monday night, on the edge of sleep, my blackberry beeped. I had an e-mail. I figured it would be one of my many LinkedIn notifications, as I'm now subscribed to five bajillion French employment networking groups that send me messages allllll dayyyy long.
Wrong.
It was from my FWB. He thanked me for letting him stay at my place again this weekend, updated me on his week ahead: finished his required full time internship for his Master this week, has a day long interview for a job in France on Wednesday, another skype interview for a VIE in the States, and plans to finish for the cruise he's taking with his grand-mère, as they leave next Monday. Then add finishing his Master's thesis, more networking, and all the CVs and cover letter writing that entails.
To this he added things I have heard from many other gentlemen before:
¨You are a super sweet, thoughtful, and charming girl...¨ ...and then came the BUT...¨ but I realize that I'm not at a suitable point right now to get into a relationship with all these changes and projects to come.¨
At that point I started bawling. Not this again not this again not the BUT not the BUT not the BUT. Started crying harder than the Parisian rain which is currently hailing down upon the 7th arrondissement and torrentially soaking the courtyard off my studio. Dripping dripping down the pipes and in the gutters like the tears on my cheeks.
The BUT is gut wrenching. The BUT is a hard pill to swallow. I'm a firm believer that if a guy is into you and wants to make it happen, he'll make it happen, and everything else is just an excuse.
I am now rethinking that. Rethinking it mostly because I wonder if for this instance, the but really is a legitimate BUT. I was at the end of many BUTS in college (no pun intended), about guys changing jobs and moving appartments and how it was just too much to handle for a relationship, and I always considered it as the nice, gentle way to let me down. To say ¨hey i like you, but not THAT much, because you're not worth the effort its going to take to be with you.¨ However, it is hard for me to believe that the FWB's but is like all the others I have received before, given the past two weeks.
I cannot be mad. I am not mad at all. I am overwhelmingly sad. I am sad because I feel like for once, truly for once, what I have with this one is not ordinary, it is nothing even in the range of ordinary, and I am (was?) willing to risk seeing where it could go. He is worth it to me. It's the not having the chance to see where it could go that kills me.
He then added, in a rather existentialist and open ended way, and much like he did last year when he left:
¨ But who knows? In life all can change. I will stay in close contact with you, it'd be my pleasure. You will always be welcome in the South if you ever want to get some sun ;-) ¨
Then the tears came falling harder. They fell harder because I am not mad at all. I am recovering from a punch to the heart, a punch delivered not by a calculating young fool, but by someone who succeeded, through his sincerity and goodness, to steal my heart. He is not a jerk or an ass or anything near it at all.
I responded after a bit because I needed to, for my own sake. I needed to tell him that I understood, because I too am trying to figure out where my life is going. What country it's going to involve. How he is someone special to me. How I only want the best for him and want to say in touch as well. He made it so sweet.
Writing is also how I process. It's more than half the reason I am writing this right now...this Cinderella had to write the suite of the now sorta-fairytale.
And so the grand question is this: is this simply a chapter closed or is the whole story over?
Sunday, December 2, 2012
Fifty Shades of Gray
On Friday afternoon I left my studio full of Poilâne and a note for FWB. It is near inhumane, dare I say cruel and unusual punishment, that my job requires me to basically live in Fontainebleau on weekends. My burn-out is seeping into all realms of my life and my motivation is dropping faster than snow in Siberia.
Unfortunately, being out here in Fontainebleau leaves me too much time to live in my head between the hours of endless boredom I suffer and so I do my brain whirling, meaning I get into over-analytical girl mode and start analyzing everything. And there comes a point when I move past the blissful excitement of seeing someone and start panicking about just what the hell we are.
Maybe it's a remnant of my dating past, because for a very long time I did not dare to ask what I was to someone else for fear of upsetting them, or for fear of rocking the boat, or of losing them. For fear of coming off too clingy, or too needy, which is definitely not my modus operandi, but a fear ingrained into my mind. I suppose the key word here is f-e-a-r.
I am downright terrified that maybe I feel more strongly than my FWB does. I have gone to the illogical-i-am-unglued-and-feel-like-a-vulnerable-insane-person-dark side and started telling myself that maybe he is just like all these other twenty something young men who just want to come and go as they please and enjoy women and don't give a damn, my biggest fear is that secretly deep down he is going to turn out like all the others and just drop me like a hot tamale. That this is too good to be true. And my only way of assuaging this fear Friday night was to Whatsapp message all my girlfriends in the states.
I told my BFF about it all and she urged me to talk to FWB.
I chatted with a good friend in Texas and she said the same thing. She told me to consider that maybe FWB too is just as afraid and doesn't know how to bring it up with me, this squirrelly ¨what are we?¨ question.
My college roommate said not to panic and just to take it easy. Another good friend from college said the same, to see where it goes with time.
BAH mais goddammit that is not me because I am someone who needs ANSWERS and cannot handle indecision. Indecision will be the very death of me, it has driven me to the brink before...BUT at the same time, what if he says no? What if he does not want to be with me? What if he too is scared about my ability to stay in this country if he stays? But he wants to go to my country...this is one hot mess.
On top of that, I am dealing with my own serious anxiety: PhD or no PhD? (That one's solved. On temporary hold for now. Or possibly permanent. I don't know yet). Ok, if no PhD, what next? Interpreter school? Job? If a job, what kind of job? And where? France or America? Oh no offense America I have nothing against you it's just that I love France more. Well then fuck, how am I going to get a visa to stay? I'll need to have a sponsored work visa. SHIT easier said than done. And editorial or communications work, what will I do? Dammit my whole CV is academic...oy. Then add the boy on top of all that. But I don't want to lose the boy! *Face palm*
Somebody hit the panic button, please?
Oh, what useless, useless teetering between indecision and fear of knowing what he wants.
My gosh what I would not give to have a crystal ball to figure out how all this turns out, because I'm suffocating in these fifty shades of gray, these neither blacks nor whites, but the complicated ins and outs of this story. And unlike the fiction I write in my spare time or the stories I study at school, I cannot predict or craft the ending of this one. Writing is simply the only way I know how to wrangle with what I feel, and has been since I was very young.
I can say this with honesty, however: the truth of this story right now is that every one else has become irrelevant. I have said it before, I'll say it again: I only want this one.
And that is a scary, scary, non-gray place to be.
Unfortunately, being out here in Fontainebleau leaves me too much time to live in my head between the hours of endless boredom I suffer and so I do my brain whirling, meaning I get into over-analytical girl mode and start analyzing everything. And there comes a point when I move past the blissful excitement of seeing someone and start panicking about just what the hell we are.
Maybe it's a remnant of my dating past, because for a very long time I did not dare to ask what I was to someone else for fear of upsetting them, or for fear of rocking the boat, or of losing them. For fear of coming off too clingy, or too needy, which is definitely not my modus operandi, but a fear ingrained into my mind. I suppose the key word here is f-e-a-r.
I am downright terrified that maybe I feel more strongly than my FWB does. I have gone to the illogical-i-am-unglued-and-feel-like-a-vulnerable-insane-person-dark side and started telling myself that maybe he is just like all these other twenty something young men who just want to come and go as they please and enjoy women and don't give a damn, my biggest fear is that secretly deep down he is going to turn out like all the others and just drop me like a hot tamale. That this is too good to be true. And my only way of assuaging this fear Friday night was to Whatsapp message all my girlfriends in the states.
I told my BFF about it all and she urged me to talk to FWB.
I chatted with a good friend in Texas and she said the same thing. She told me to consider that maybe FWB too is just as afraid and doesn't know how to bring it up with me, this squirrelly ¨what are we?¨ question.
My college roommate said not to panic and just to take it easy. Another good friend from college said the same, to see where it goes with time.
BAH mais goddammit that is not me because I am someone who needs ANSWERS and cannot handle indecision. Indecision will be the very death of me, it has driven me to the brink before...BUT at the same time, what if he says no? What if he does not want to be with me? What if he too is scared about my ability to stay in this country if he stays? But he wants to go to my country...this is one hot mess.
On top of that, I am dealing with my own serious anxiety: PhD or no PhD? (That one's solved. On temporary hold for now. Or possibly permanent. I don't know yet). Ok, if no PhD, what next? Interpreter school? Job? If a job, what kind of job? And where? France or America? Oh no offense America I have nothing against you it's just that I love France more. Well then fuck, how am I going to get a visa to stay? I'll need to have a sponsored work visa. SHIT easier said than done. And editorial or communications work, what will I do? Dammit my whole CV is academic...oy. Then add the boy on top of all that. But I don't want to lose the boy! *Face palm*
Somebody hit the panic button, please?
Oh, what useless, useless teetering between indecision and fear of knowing what he wants.
My gosh what I would not give to have a crystal ball to figure out how all this turns out, because I'm suffocating in these fifty shades of gray, these neither blacks nor whites, but the complicated ins and outs of this story. And unlike the fiction I write in my spare time or the stories I study at school, I cannot predict or craft the ending of this one. Writing is simply the only way I know how to wrangle with what I feel, and has been since I was very young.
I can say this with honesty, however: the truth of this story right now is that every one else has become irrelevant. I have said it before, I'll say it again: I only want this one.
And that is a scary, scary, non-gray place to be.
Friday, November 30, 2012
Rocquefort, Poilâne, and a Frenchman: FWB redux
This weekend at the Carrousel du Louvre is a wine salon. Naturally, my FWB is attending. He came up last night on the TGV after his interview in Nîmes for a VIE (Volontariat International en Entreprise), i.e.:
Le Volontariat International en Entreprises (V.I.E), instauré par la loi du 14 mars 2000, permet aux entreprises françaises de confier à un jeune, homme ou femme, jusqu’à 28 ans, une mission professionnelle à l’étranger durant une période modulable de 6 à 24 mois, renouvelable une fois dans cette limite.
Le Volontariat International en Entreprises (V.I.E), instauré par la loi du 14 mars 2000, permet aux entreprises françaises de confier à un jeune, homme ou femme, jusqu’à 28 ans, une mission professionnelle à l’étranger durant une période modulable de 6 à 24 mois, renouvelable une fois dans cette limite.
The International Business Internship, inaugurated by the law of March 14th 2000, allows French business to entrust a young person, man or woman, up to the age of 28, a professional mission abroad for a flexible period of 6 to 24 months, renewable one time within this limit.
Unfortunately for him, the business he's looking to VIE for already has someone on-site in New York currently doing a VIE and they will most likely hire that person full time with an American J-1 work visa, aka, meaning they won't take anymore stagiaires, such as my FWB, in NYC. (YES!!!! VICTORY!) However, should the business not hire the current individual in the job, my FWB explained that he is one of four candidates to be sent to New York in that person's place.
Oh sweet Jesus I am a horrible person who wants you to S-T-A-Y.
Funnily enough, I was also turned down for a full time job yesterday in Paris, for the third time. Oh how timing is everything right now, or so it seems. Hélas.
Funnily enough, I was also turned down for a full time job yesterday in Paris, for the third time. Oh how timing is everything right now, or so it seems. Hélas.
Last night I spoiled my FWB and bought him amazingly good cheese from Nicole Barthélémy, which is Barefoot Contessa Ina Garten's favorite cheese shop in Paris. Nicole is the queen of cheese and regularly given national awards for her craft. If you like cheese, it is heaven, and I happen to love cheese (there's a reason my own father used to call me ¨Mouse¨ when I was a kid!). I share this love of cheese with my FWB, who like any red flooded Frenchman, can't get enough.
I was also eager to show my FWB the difference with his own local Claudine Vigier, who is Nicole's rival. Cheese is serious business in France. You walk into Nicole Barthélémy and you are immediately helped by one of the staff fromagères who ask you what you're looking for. These goddesses of all things cheese will then propose not only several varieties of what you're searching (comte, gruyère, brébis, tome de brébi, the list goes on) but also multiple affinages based on how long the cheese has been left to age, most commonly 6, 12, 18, 24, and even 36 months. A cheese's character and taste change over time, like a wine's. You can also tell, as my FWB taught me, how long a cheese has been aged based on the thickness of the rimmed crust ( the croûte ) which is produced as the milk in the cheese dries out. I've been in this country two and a half years and yet there is still so much to learn...
Thus, to prepare FWB's arrival, I walked around the corner and picked out a fabulously rich and salty Rocquefort (one of FWB's and my favorites), a good comté, and his ultimate favorite cheese, a beaufort d'été. Then it was on to charcuterie (rillettes, saucisse séche, mousse de foie, saumon fumé) and...drum roll please...Poilâne.
The pretty paper bag the bread comes in :)
Poilâne is a Parisian institution. Founded in 1932 by a young baker from Normandy, the bakery is still located on 8, rue du Cherche-Midi in the 6th arrondissement and about 10 minutes walk from my studio. FWB had tried slightly dried out Poilâne that we'd bought at Claudine Vigier, and I wanted him to try fresh Poilâne to taste the difference. I bought a quarter of a round. I should've bought a half a round...when I say he likes bread, I do not lie. He downnnned slice after slice. Yet he is trim...sigh. If I ate bread like he does, I'd be a whale. The small price to pay for being a woman, alas. He was very, very happy with the bread though.
¨When the bread isnt good, you don't eat a lot of it,¨ he explained. ¨But when it's really, really
good, you eat a lot!¨
The same apparently goes for cheese. What was supposed to be our apéro turned into our dinner. Full of good cheese and charcuterie (we both LOVE rillettes like mad, I've discovered) and wine he brought, he was sleepy and laid back onto me on my couch. I was so happy to have spoiled him. So damn happy. I put his head in my lap and stroked his hair and he closed his eyes. There are moments when I just want to hold him forever and never let him go, I am so at ease around him, so comfortable and so happy. It feels very natural, nothing is forced. Even the silence between us is easy, sometimes there is no need for words, no need to feel the gaps with idle chatter.
He is again staying at my place this weekend while I jet off to the countryside for work (UGH. I need my life back!) but he was adorable this morning and didn't want to go (!!!!) to his wine salon, which started at 10. We woke up at 9 and he hugged me and exclaimed:
¨I don't want to go I don't want to go I don't want to leave!¨
Don't go don't go don't go then stay here stay in France stay with me invite me down for Christmas and I will stay and you will stay and we will stay all we want.
I handed him my set of spare keys and hugged him. Then he left, off to taste a large list of wine. I'll be back early enough on Sunday to see him before he leaves again for Avignon.
Then I went off to Poilâne, and bought him a half a round of Poilâne for the week-end...
Wednesday, November 28, 2012
Tempted to Have These Made
Am I nuts? And can you tell what team I'm rooting for?
You can judge while I sip my Côtes-du-Rhône. I care not.
You can judge while I sip my Côtes-du-Rhône. I care not.
The Day After the Fairytale
Monday in Paris was cold and grey. It felt empty and lonely and I wanted it to be Thursday. I couldn't help but see FWB everywhere: in the wine shops on rue du Bac and rue de Grenelle, smiling outside my front door like he always does when I see him.
I thought about the cheese shop around the corner, Nicole Barthelemy, and how on Thursday I need to pick up brébis and beaufort d'été for him, and hot chocolate because his favorite breakfast is good toast dipped in hot chocolate. He doesn't drink any form of caffeine, never has.
I thought about how we bought the famous Parisian bread, Poilâne, at the fromagère in Carpentras, and while it was good, it was a few days old, so I'd have to buy fresh Poilâne for him to try.
FWB makes me want to do nice things for him, thoughtful things. He makes me want to surprise him and buy his favorite cheese and just hug him half to death.
My concentration is shot to hell. I had a midterm in Italian and had a hard time focusing.
Instead I wrote like a madwoman on this blog trying to get it all down so I won't forget anything. Like I did in my moleskine journal last year after I met him.
Then I went down to the card shop on rue du Bac and bought two thank you cards, one for him, and one for his parents. I sat down in my apartment to write them both, paying super close attention to my French, and then went to the post office. They were whisked down to Provence last night.
My words are the truest gift of self I know how to give. This is why I slipped him a goodbye letter in his backpack last year before he left.
I am alone, pinching myself, unable to concentrate, completely and hopelessly swept off my feet, and afraid. Very afraid of the unknown, either way: of him leaving and disappearing, or of him staying and me not knowing where this will go in either case.
I do not know how this story ends.
This is but a chapter.
All I know is what I knew, somehow in my gut last October: it is not over yet.
I thought about the cheese shop around the corner, Nicole Barthelemy, and how on Thursday I need to pick up brébis and beaufort d'été for him, and hot chocolate because his favorite breakfast is good toast dipped in hot chocolate. He doesn't drink any form of caffeine, never has.
I thought about how we bought the famous Parisian bread, Poilâne, at the fromagère in Carpentras, and while it was good, it was a few days old, so I'd have to buy fresh Poilâne for him to try.
FWB makes me want to do nice things for him, thoughtful things. He makes me want to surprise him and buy his favorite cheese and just hug him half to death.
My concentration is shot to hell. I had a midterm in Italian and had a hard time focusing.
Instead I wrote like a madwoman on this blog trying to get it all down so I won't forget anything. Like I did in my moleskine journal last year after I met him.
Then I went down to the card shop on rue du Bac and bought two thank you cards, one for him, and one for his parents. I sat down in my apartment to write them both, paying super close attention to my French, and then went to the post office. They were whisked down to Provence last night.
My words are the truest gift of self I know how to give. This is why I slipped him a goodbye letter in his backpack last year before he left.
I am alone, pinching myself, unable to concentrate, completely and hopelessly swept off my feet, and afraid. Very afraid of the unknown, either way: of him leaving and disappearing, or of him staying and me not knowing where this will go in either case.
I do not know how this story ends.
This is but a chapter.
All I know is what I knew, somehow in my gut last October: it is not over yet.
Tuesday, November 27, 2012
A Fairytale in Provence: part V
On Sunday we were dead tired from dancing. We really slept in. Normally a morning person, I felt strange sleeping so late. By the time we were up, it was near noon. As I dressed I could hear FWBs grandma upstairs. He came down the stairs to get me once I was showered and presentable. And then I had to face the fam.
Odette, FWBs maternal grandmother, is in her 80s, and insanely close to her grandson, who is very much the pride and joy of both his mom and grandma. Grandma is apparently a fabulous cook who still makes FWB the lunches he takes to work, the way she has been feeding him since he was a schoolboy. But you know what they say about men: if a man knows how to treat his mom and the women in his life, he'll treat his significant other or wife well too. This is certainly true for FWB: he's taking his grandma on a surprise ten-day cruise in December to Malta and the Grecian islands. She knows he's taking her somewhere, but not where yet, and she is adorably worried.
Once upstairs I was ushered into the living room and met the famous grandma. We then sat down to a formal lunch prepared by FWB's mom, an entrée of salad and French cake, which is like a soft egg bread filled with cheese and ham and olives, and then mushrooms in a vinagrette. This was followed my a truffled omelette and then a typical southern dish, tomates farcies, which were fragrant and delicious. We finished off lunch with a mirabelle and apple tarte since it was FWBs dad's birthday (which I didn't know until the last minute! Or I would've brought something!) and delicious red wine and a mousseux de limoux with dessert. I was very full.
FWB's mom coyly asked how we met through the course of the meal.
¨ At a bar in the 6th after the first week of Master¨ he explained. He was trying to avoid what I like to call, and what my mom likes doing (love you too Mom), the Spanish Inquisition.
Oh if you only knew you adorable French woman. She cannot be stupid, as most mothers aren't: it's not every day your son brings home an attractive young 20 something Californienne, not to toot my own horn. But I know mothers because I am close to mine and FWB's mother cannot be oblivious. She clearly, clearly had more questions she would've liked to ask.
Once lunch was over she and I chatted more and I said that it must have been hard for her to not have her son for a year, especially since he is an only child. It must be even harder thinking that he might leave for the states. She said yes, but that it's different with boys, that she would've liked to have a daughter because mothers and daughters tend to be close. I nodded in agreement and explained this is the case with my mom.
¨Maybe one day I'll be close to my daughter-in-law,¨ she laughed instead.
Odette, FWBs maternal grandmother, is in her 80s, and insanely close to her grandson, who is very much the pride and joy of both his mom and grandma. Grandma is apparently a fabulous cook who still makes FWB the lunches he takes to work, the way she has been feeding him since he was a schoolboy. But you know what they say about men: if a man knows how to treat his mom and the women in his life, he'll treat his significant other or wife well too. This is certainly true for FWB: he's taking his grandma on a surprise ten-day cruise in December to Malta and the Grecian islands. She knows he's taking her somewhere, but not where yet, and she is adorably worried.
Once upstairs I was ushered into the living room and met the famous grandma. We then sat down to a formal lunch prepared by FWB's mom, an entrée of salad and French cake, which is like a soft egg bread filled with cheese and ham and olives, and then mushrooms in a vinagrette. This was followed my a truffled omelette and then a typical southern dish, tomates farcies, which were fragrant and delicious. We finished off lunch with a mirabelle and apple tarte since it was FWBs dad's birthday (which I didn't know until the last minute! Or I would've brought something!) and delicious red wine and a mousseux de limoux with dessert. I was very full.
FWB's mom coyly asked how we met through the course of the meal.
¨ At a bar in the 6th after the first week of Master¨ he explained. He was trying to avoid what I like to call, and what my mom likes doing (love you too Mom), the Spanish Inquisition.
Oh if you only knew you adorable French woman. She cannot be stupid, as most mothers aren't: it's not every day your son brings home an attractive young 20 something Californienne, not to toot my own horn. But I know mothers because I am close to mine and FWB's mother cannot be oblivious. She clearly, clearly had more questions she would've liked to ask.
Once lunch was over she and I chatted more and I said that it must have been hard for her to not have her son for a year, especially since he is an only child. It must be even harder thinking that he might leave for the states. She said yes, but that it's different with boys, that she would've liked to have a daughter because mothers and daughters tend to be close. I nodded in agreement and explained this is the case with my mom.
¨Maybe one day I'll be close to my daughter-in-law,¨ she laughed instead.
* * *
On Sunday, my train did not leave until 8h30 at night. I deliberately scheduled the latest train I possibly could to maximize my time down south. At three in the afternoon I could already feel my heart crippling under the dread of leaving, my chest tightening and choking back yet unshed tears. It was sunny out and FWB's parents suggested we take advantage of the sun since rain was in the forecast but held off.
FWB then drove me to the hill at the top of his village where we overlooked the acres and acres of golden vineyards who slept in repose after the harvest. We went to the little church, which dates to the 12th century, overlooking the rest of the sleepy village.
¨It's where I had my communion,¨ he touched the wooden doors.
Then we hopped back into the car like we had all week-end. He took me to Séguret, where his grandma was born, then to Sablet, some of the most picturesque villages in all of France. I teased him, said it reminded me of Belle in Beauty and the Beast, and that I felt like I was walking through Disneyland the village was so quaint.
Afterwards we drove to the dentelles de Montmirail and hiked to the top. We gazed out over the green, lush mountain tops hunching over pruned vines whose grapes were long gone.
Then it was off to Vacqueyras and Gicondas, where he drove us through the vineyards. We stopped at wineries where he had worked summers as a teenager, and in Chateauneuf-du-Pape we pulled over so he could show me the AOCs famous stones: the vines grow upward through a thick layer of stones that, in the summer, absorb the heat of the day and reflect it back on the fruit in the evening as it cools, producing a rich, full grape bursting with juice. I picked two of the stones and he picked another one for me and I slid them into my bag to take home.
The sun was sinking ever lower and time was passing ever more quickly.
FWB mentioned that it was a shame the tasting room was not open, because we should've gone.
¨Next time you're here,¨ he said. La prochaine fois. You clearly want there to be a next time. But when will that be? I do not know.
I did not want to leave.
* * *
After the vineyards, we went to the little island cross from the Pont d'Avignon and walked arm in arm, hand in hand. It was dark and the lights reflected on the river water. I tried to avoid looking at the time on my cell phone.
¨On se promène en amoureux,¨ he teased.
Then we went to Avignon one more time, to grab a warm drink before I had to leave. We were across from one another, him caressing my cheek, me doing the same.
¨What was your favorite village? Or your favorite thing this whole weekend?¨ he asked me.
¨Getting to see where you are from. Your village,¨ I replied. He smiled. He tried to make me pronounce the name of his village again. It is very, very hard given the first letter is an R. French R's are brutal. He teased me all weekend when I couldn't quite get it.
¨Not bad not bad, but not quite...you're getting there though!¨
¨It's hard!¨ I laughed. ¨R is hard!¨
Then he took me to the train station.
¨What was your favorite village? Or your favorite thing this whole weekend?¨ he asked me.
¨Getting to see where you are from. Your village,¨ I replied. He smiled. He tried to make me pronounce the name of his village again. It is very, very hard given the first letter is an R. French R's are brutal. He teased me all weekend when I couldn't quite get it.
¨Not bad not bad, but not quite...you're getting there though!¨
¨It's hard!¨ I laughed. ¨R is hard!¨
Then he took me to the train station.
* * *
At the train station, he took my suitcase in hand. We had a bit of time but I could feel my heart welling. He is planning to be in Paris this coming Thursday night, after his interview in Nîmes for his potential job in the USA. But with time to kill, we went to the billeterie so he could buy his ticket for Thursday.
Then I had to board and he walked me to check-in. There were trains on the tracks departing, not mine, but others.
¨Look, your train is leaving, I guess you'll have to stay, you're stuck here! You're not allowed to leave!¨
¨I wouldn't mind that,¨ I felt the lump in my throat. I turned to face him and knew the tears were there. I hugged him. He leaned in and kissed me and I know he saw the tears I was fighting to hold back. His looked a bit teary too. He tried to say goodbye quickly, because it was painful, because neither of us wanted to.
Then he left me and I bawled waiting for the train.
I am not a crier. It is hard to move me this much emotionally, I can usually hold it together. The last time I cried like this was when he left the first time.
* * *
Once back in Paris, in my studio, after midnight, I started to unpack. My suitcase seemed oddly heavy. I laid it on my couch and unzipped it.
There, nestled in amongst my sweaters, was a bottle of Vin Doux Naturel. The one he made me taste on our first date. The one I searched Paris high and low for last December to bring home to California, and had told him I hunted for. The one made by the local cave in his village.
He had snuck it into my suitcase lord knows when.
It is this sort of attention to detail, this caliber of thoughtfulness that is going to kill me, that has stolen my heart and whisked it away. He is out to rip my sentimental heart straight out of my chest. You cannot do these things and not expect me to get attached, to not expect me to fall for you.
I didn't think it was possible that someone like this could exist, and if they existed, that they would want to do this for me. This is the sort of thing that happens in a fairytale. Pinch me now, how is this real? And how is it happening to me? I do not know what I did to deserve it, I feel like the luckiest girl in the world right now.
But it also elicited another round of tears. It is painful not having him here, thinking about what could happen, where he could go. Where I could go.
I texted my best friend in California.
¨Damn girl,¨ she messaged me back. ¨Think you snagged yourself a good one.¨
I have I have good lord ever I have, please just let me keep him.
My heart has been stolen. I want no one else.
I am Cinderella, living a fairytale between Paris and Provence, afraid of when the clock strikes midnight and the spell will be broken.
I am Cinderella, living a fairytale between Paris and Provence, afraid of when the clock strikes midnight and the spell will be broken.
A Fairytale in Provence: part IV
At Y's later Saturday evening, we arrived with the six cheeses and two loaves of bread (like I've said, cheese and bread are serious business in this country), at Y's. Y had picked up a bucket load of oysters and FWB had also carefully picked two bottles of wine from his personal collection, housed in the cave in his basement. Y then got a call from their friend JP to come to his parent's mansion, seeing as they were away for the weekend.
I had brought clothes to change into, and needed to freshen up. M lent me her straightening iron and I did my hair and makeup. When I walked out, and just as we were leaving for JP's, FWB pulled me aside and said in a silly voice ( he's a big goofball half the time ):
¨You are dressed too sexily to go out! You have to stay here!¨
I looked at M. I was in opaque black tights and a long t-shirt dress in a pretty green paisley print that was slightly décolleté, but no where near indecently, and I had put on my favorite red Dior lipstick. M retorted that it was just because he didn't want other men to steal me.
¨Ne t'inquiète pas,¨ I tapped him on the nose. ¨ C'est bien difficile de m'attraper.¨ In other words, there is no need to worry my FWB: I am all yours, and only yours.
We--me, FWB, Y, M, and their friend Bob--made our way to JP's a few blocks away. M and I explored the house, which had to date back to the 18th century, while the men opened the oysters and prepared the cheese. Our contribution was plating the pre-cut bread. We sat around the formal table and lit the candelabra and had wine and oysters in the dark.
Then, like any good adventure in wine country, we explored the cave of the house. It was cold and FWB nestled into me, and then he got my jacket for me. We were glued together, my hand in the back pocket of his jeans, his arm around my waist. I could've stayed there all night tucked into his side.
¨Not here,¨ he whispered. ¨Some other time.¨ We left the dancefloor a few times to take some air, but he didn't drop my hand. I had become fusionned to him, an apendage, inseparable.
We went home at four in the morning, claqués after a long, full day, but quietly smiling in the dark in his car along the back roads of the Vaucluse. And once home, like every night, he put me to sleep in his arms.
I had brought clothes to change into, and needed to freshen up. M lent me her straightening iron and I did my hair and makeup. When I walked out, and just as we were leaving for JP's, FWB pulled me aside and said in a silly voice ( he's a big goofball half the time ):
¨You are dressed too sexily to go out! You have to stay here!¨
I looked at M. I was in opaque black tights and a long t-shirt dress in a pretty green paisley print that was slightly décolleté, but no where near indecently, and I had put on my favorite red Dior lipstick. M retorted that it was just because he didn't want other men to steal me.
¨Ne t'inquiète pas,¨ I tapped him on the nose. ¨ C'est bien difficile de m'attraper.¨ In other words, there is no need to worry my FWB: I am all yours, and only yours.
We--me, FWB, Y, M, and their friend Bob--made our way to JP's a few blocks away. M and I explored the house, which had to date back to the 18th century, while the men opened the oysters and prepared the cheese. Our contribution was plating the pre-cut bread. We sat around the formal table and lit the candelabra and had wine and oysters in the dark.
Then, like any good adventure in wine country, we explored the cave of the house. It was cold and FWB nestled into me, and then he got my jacket for me. We were glued together, my hand in the back pocket of his jeans, his arm around my waist. I could've stayed there all night tucked into his side.
* * *
After dinner, we made our way to the place Pie for drinks. We were seated outside at tables and I was slightly tipsy from all the wine, but not enough to be warm. Seated once again next to FWB, we were once again nestled into one another when Y exclaimed:
¨Alright, I'm finally drunk enough to ask this, are you two together or WHAT? What with all your back rubbing and cuddling!¨
We were both silent but didn't curl out of each other's arms.
The truth is that that is a complicated question. If we were in the same place and not trying to go to each other's respective countries at the same time, I would've without hesitation said yes. Because the other truth is this: I do not want anyone else. I do not want to see any other people anymore. I do not give a damn about E or Monsieur Lawyer. I want FWB and only FWB. And I would give just about anything right now to be able to keep him. I am beginning the heavens on my knees to please just let me keep him. I am tired of dating people who are content to let me get away, I cannot bear to live through another person who just lets me get away.
Please don't let me go. Please please please please.
But I do not have any answers. Half of me wants to curse myself. This would all be so much easier if he had just gone off into his life and never got back in touch with me. If he had done his trip around the world and disappeared into oblivion like I was completely expecting and mentally prepared for. I never mentally prepared myself for this. If I have to say goodbye again I don't know if I'll be able to handle it. There are moments when I wish he hadn't found me again.
¨ It's ok. You two will be married in a year!¨ Y chuckled benignly. ¨Well hey, I mean you're both trying to go to each other's countries! You could at least help each other out and get PACSed!¨
I pulled Y aside and whispered to him that, just between the two of us, FWB had already offered that in September if I needed a way to stay. I didn't say yes....that is not possible when you have to live with the person you PACS, and when my FWB wants to go to my homeland, which will not recognize a PACS.
I just want to keep him. Somehow. Someway. And I'm afraid he doesn't feel the same way, that this is just me, that I'm precariously walking the tightrope of vulnerability.
* * *
Once the place Pie shut down at one, we proceeded to dancing. And the rest of the night FWB didn't let me go. He had mentioned earlier in the day that he wanted to learn to salsa. I know the basics so I replied that I could teach him.¨Not here,¨ he whispered. ¨Some other time.¨ We left the dancefloor a few times to take some air, but he didn't drop my hand. I had become fusionned to him, an apendage, inseparable.
We went home at four in the morning, claqués after a long, full day, but quietly smiling in the dark in his car along the back roads of the Vaucluse. And once home, like every night, he put me to sleep in his arms.
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