Last year at the start of the school year, I went out the first weekend of October with my best american friend in Paris, B, who also happened to be in my Masters program at the Sorbonne. We'd met the previous year through our marathon training group and bonded over the fact we were both English teaching assistants for the government. She was my American wing woman, and on this particular night, we made our way to the cocktail bar Prescription located on rue Mazarine in the 6th. To say that I love the Saint-Germain-dès-Pres neighborhood of Paris is an understatement. It's also practically located between school and my studio and I adore traversing it's narrow, angled streets haphazardly and sipping coffee at a fabulous café named Conti....but I'll save my ode to the 6th for another time.
When we entered, we stayed downstairs and wound our way to the bar when in the corner we spotted a bunch of Frenchmen chatting fervently in English. Anytime you spot Frenchmen speaking English in Paris the first think you think is: why? And the second is: engineering, business, or marketing? because the man in question is sure to work in one of those domains.
B eagle eyed two Frenchmen in a corner, one of which was wearing a blue button down. She pointed him out to me. ¨ He's cute,¨ she muttered amongst the throbbing heartbeat of the music which pounded against the walls. Aloof, I turned my head for two seconds to look at him in the dim light, responded in the affirmative, thought to myself that he was too pretty for me and would never go for anyone like me, and proceeded to order a drink.
B had brought with her a friend, A, who was dressed to the nines, and A had brought some of her American friends, so there we were, packed into a corner of a beautiful bar and eaves dropping on the Frenchies. Button down shirt man and his friend passed us to order drinks. They glanced at us, glanced away, and glanced back.
¨ Bonsoir,¨ I said. The button down shirt man came over and introduced himself. His name was R, he and his buddies were there to celebrate the start of their Masters of Science in Wine Management at the Organisation International du Vin (OIV). I mentioned that I was American and from California. At this point, R exclaimed with excitement ¨I want to work in California!¨
BINGO.
We chatted non-stop the rest of the evening. He was from the south, a tiny wine making village near Avignon, and his family was comprised of wine makers on both sides, both mom and dad. He wanted to go do his Masters degree and then work in the states establishing his own import business, because as he explained ¨ the thing about French wineries is they are very small, so small in fact that they don't know how to export, but their wines are fantastic,¨ which was the case for his family. I really liked this one.
Then he explained he was leaving for eleven months in one week to travel the globe: this wasn't any one Master, this was an eleven month intensive in the field, in your face, living out of two suitcases kind of Master: going to all the major wine production and consumption sites on the globe. Dammit.
At two in the morning I figured, tired, I'd take my leave with B and A and leave. I thanked him for the evening and said goodbye. He offered to see us home, but we responded that it wasn't necessary, we were taking a taxi. I grabbed my coat.
Just as I was about to exit the doorway, I felt him run up behind me. He had dashed from the back of the bar to me. He handed me his business card.
¨ Take this. Call me tomorrow. Come over and I'll teach you how to wine taste. You said you like dark chocolate and I have a wine from my village that will pair great with it. ¨
Shocked, I took the card. Was this a fairy tale? Did this just happen to me? He kissed me goodbye on the cheek.
* * *
The next day I asked B if I should take up The French Wine Baron's offer. She encouraged me, so I shot him a tentative text: ¨ Hi R, this is Lindsay, the Californian you met last night. Let me know if you're still interested in having me over for a wine tasting.¨ He called me that afternoon, I bought a dark chocolate cake, and we met up near his place that evening.
I was nervous to see him again, afraid I'd imagined it all. He was as attractive as ever, good lord, when he met me at the metro. I met his roommates, we busted out wine, and he taught me how to swirl and sip while aerating the wine.
¨It sounds like two teenagers making out in a high school hallway!¨ I blurted out after attempting, not very well, to oxygenate the wine while sucking air through my lips.
R and his roomies burst into laughter. Discussion was going well. R suggested, since it was clear out, that we grab our coats and go for a walk. We made our way back to the metro.
* * *
It has been nearly a year since this has happened, but I remember it like it were a movie I could watch: We took the metro to the Trocadéro across the Seine from the Eiffel Tower, and there watching the lights of the tower dance, he leaned in and kissed me.
I felt like I was in a fairy tale.
We perched on the edges of the Trocadéro ledge and talked, made our way eventually down to the river and crossed the bridge and under the Eiffel Tower. He stopped every few minutes to kiss me and tell me how beautiful I was.
¨You probably know Paris better than I do, American girl,¨ he laughed. ¨I can joke that the American is showing me Paris.¨
We snaked our way to Invalides, where we chatted some more, and then he saw me home, but not before we busted out a Crémant de Bourgogne, a rosé, at which point he exclaimed ¨I could marry you RIGHT NOW.¨ I smiled.
I saw him a few more times that week: I made him a Mexican dinner at my place and he broke my pepper shaker. He felt so bad that the next time he brought me macarons from Dalloyau and hand fed them to me. He did the dishes after dinner and with a slight sadness in his eyes held me and said that if he was staying in Paris, he'd ¨keep me.¨ He jokingly invited me to the south for Christmas so he could ¨show off his American,¨ and I thought he was serious.
I didn't want him to leave.
The last time I saw him I wrote him a goodbye letter that I slipped into his backpack. I told him I didn't know if we would never see each other again, but I wished him nothing but happiness and good wishes for his journey ahead. I told him to think of me when he finally made it to Napa and that I was sure he'd like California.
I recommended he read Paulo Coehlo's The Alchemist.
I was fully prepared to never see him again.
* * *
December 2011. I'm planning to go home to California. I hunt Paris high and low for the Rasteau Vin Doux Naturel he mad me try. I call the cave in his hometown, and their suppliers call me personally to tell me where to find it in Paris. I buy two bottles. I tell him I do this.
A few days before the end of the year, French Wine Baron tells me he is passing through Paris at New Year's and wants to see me. I can't. I'm on the other side of the globe.
My seven year shit show of a saga comes to a head while I'm home and I'm devastated. I come back to Paris and when I get off the plane, I feel like I'm home. A month later, I cut Mr. Saga out of my life for good.
April 2012. French Wine Baron is again passing through Paris on his way to Germany for school. I won't be there due to work constraints.
August 2012. French Wine Baron finds me on LinkedIn. We start chatting again. We e-mail back and forth. He invites me to the south for a week. At this point, I'm seeing E (see next post), don't know what we are, but don't want to mess anything up with E. I'm afraid to accepted the FWB's invitation because I don't know what will pass between us. I'm also not free with work. I decline.
September 2012. E ends it with me. FWB responds, he doesn't know about E, I never said anything. FWB understands my work constraints. He too is in a huge transition period. He's trying to find work in the States and I am going to be fighting in a year to stay here, in France. Over an email, I jokingly say we should get married. He shocks me again when he says:
¨ Marriage...maybe one day, that's super serious, I'll have to think about it...but I wouldn't be against a PACS!¨ A PACS is France's civil union, and anyone French can PACS anyone of their choice. It is o small deal, however, because it ensures foreigners visas. The catch is that one must cohabitate with their Significant Other and officers regularly come check to verify you do live together. A PACS for me would be something I would consider with someone if I thought they were The One but not quite ready for marriage...a test drive, if you will.
The FWB scared the living day lights out of me when he mentioned this! HE IS STRAIGHT UP WILLING TO PACS ME!!? WTF!
None the less, he mentioned he'd be in Paris again the weekend of the 29th. We'll see each other again. Nearly a year after parting for what I thought was forever. After I felt my heart buckle a bit under the weight of ¨what could have been,¨ and I had to say goodbye.
He still wants me to come to the south to show me his pays. A pays means ¨country,¨ but for the French can specifically mean the region of the country where they're from, where they're grown. France is not a uniform place, but a massive, beautiful patchwork of regions boasting unique cuisine, history, and traditions. Accents even. FWB has this gorgeous, nasally southern drawl inflected with hints of Spanish rhythm and intonation.
I have gathered FWB wants to show me his pays because he's proud of it: it's where he, and his grapes, and his wine, are from. To want to show this to me is a huge compliment. It's also adorable.
I mentioned I'd be free the following weekend. He mentioned gleefully that ¨hey, he too!¨ would be free and I could TOTALLY come to the south if I wanted. We'll see.
All I know for now is OH JESUS I am going to see you again and I am so excited and so scared and want to live in the moment but i'm afraid of having to say goodbye to you again because DAMMIT I really liked you the first time and am afraid I will the next just as much if not more.
Am I living a fairy tale?
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