The Uphill Battle

        After three weeks in Bretagne, I leave for Paris tomorrow. My séjour here has been lovely, but today it ended in a rain storm, whose suite has been a pastel yellow sky, small trains of clouds splicing the ocean colored globe above.

          I have a lot on my mind.

         This One and I have been texting and I cannot wait to get back to see him, though he's made it more than clear I'm under examination as to determine whether or not I am a ¨little girl¨. I know I'm literally and figuratively not one, but this has wracked my nerves a bit. A remise en question if you will. I, in return, have made it clear he's under examination to determine whether or not he is a ¨capricious man¨ as I don't deal with those either. I'm sticking to my guns about this being a two way street; it is just only I that have to meet standards, it's him too, and I'd prefer we don't waste one another's time.

          Then there's the stress about financing and finishing this master and staying in France.

          Sometimes I ask myself what the hell I am doing with my life. Sometimes I think that returning ¨home¨ to the US is the answer to all my worries. Sometimes in the midst of all the suffering that fighting to stay here requires, I ask myself why I choose to fight the uphill battles, pick the hardest things I can find to do, want to pack the suitcases and hit the plane and run. But it is not that simple, and at this point, it is not just about the country, it is about this génération flottante and the tossing, churning current into which we are thrown.

          Je trouvais pas mon chemin, trop de brume. 

          Against the current I go.

Sparks Fly

Ten days ago, which is more than a bit tardy for the likes of my blog posting, was America’s birthday.  It also happened to be my first ever 4th of July date. The gentleman I met at the Berkeley Club of France mixer, whom I am going to just call This One, as in oh-lord-here-we-go-again-what-the-hell-am-I-doing-you-are-probably-going-to-break-my-heart-like-every-other-person, emailed me and we set up dinner to celebrate ¨my¨ country’s independence.

He’d been adorably emailing me from work all day and so our conversation was a back and forth volley of verbal sparring, the kind I love the best, a sort of mental ping pong that keeps me on my toes and far from bored.

Downstairs at my desk at work, I opened an email and couldn’t help but turn to my work colleague, M and grin wide.

¨If I didn’t know any better,¨ I laughed out loud, ¨I’d say this one is interested.¨

And then I was so excited about the damn date I proceeded to sleep like crap the night before.  Crashed at one am, only to toss and turn until 3:30. Woke up for a brief half hour to work, then laid back down from 4 to 6. Up  for good at 7:30. Caffeinated like mad all day, took a disco nap from 5:30 to 6:30, and then attempted to make myself look smoking hot, which apparently I succeeded in because the night ended with This One telling me that he’d been dying to kiss me the first five minutes of our date. Oh, I am a sly little coquine...

*  *  *

The first five minutes of that date go a little something like this: I show up to a restaurant and there he is sitting waiting after I text him to tell him I’m a few metro stops away.

¨It’s ok, you’re Parisian now, always 15 minutes late!¨ He texted jokingly. 

¨No, not 15, I promise!¨

So I arrive and he’s nonchalantly sipping an American beer and I’m a tad nervous but excited to have fun.

And discussion begins. But This One doesn’t bore me.  This One is quite fun.  And I get the distinct impression he’s feeling me out and playing with him, making sure I fit a category of criteria, not in a superficial sort of way, but that he’s trying to decipher me to know if I’m worth the chase. I can’t tell if this is some sort of Parisian séducteur par excellence game, but he is playing for sure.

I play right back.

*  *  *

This One is a bit older than I am, but I prefer that. After dinner, over drinks, he makes it clear how frank he is. Between the laughing and the playing are some things I think he is more serious about, though he seems to veil them.

¨Why don’t you have a boyfriend?¨ He inquires. Part of this is curiosity, part of it is, I am sure, trying to make sure I’m not psychotic. I explain what I’ve spent the last two years of my life doing, I explain that I’ve just finished in May, that I had no real time to date, I explain that I am a picky b*tch when it comes to gentlemen and that I prefer not to waste my time.

¨I like that phrase,¨ he laughs. Then proceeds to explain that he is much the same, that he knows what he wants and knows it when he sees it. This surely rings a bell with me.

Time to turn the tables: ¨Why don’t you have a girlfriend?¨

He explains he did when he returned, they dated for a while, but he figured out fast that she wasn’t what he was looking for, she wasn’t The One for This One and so he broke it off, though he surely gave her the benefit of the doubt.

I cannot tell what his motivations are,  because given his age he could surely just be dating to date, but I don’t quite sense that either. Behind the smoke screen of this game we are playing, behind the half joking poker face, I think, is a more serious agenda. It's too early to tell. 

¨It’s ok,¨ he laughs at certain points. ¨Next time we’ll do this and this…¨ and rattles off a list of things I need to do in Paris.

¨Oh, so there’s going to be a next time?¨ I tease.  This throws him off. 

¨Will there be?¨ he pauses and gives me a coy grin. 

¨I don’t know yet, we haven’t reached the end of this time yet.¨ I smirk. 

*  *  *

In some small, stupid way I am afraid that by writing this, I am dooming this to fail. Call it a minor superstition, but this is why I’ve held off writing about This One for a bit after our date.  There is something about This One I want to keep to myself anyway, something about him I do not want to make blog fodder, so if I am a little more vague than usual, forgive me.

It’s always at the start of something that you wonder how it will finish, a natural human curiosity, if you will…and any good storyteller will always know the punch line before she gets there. This is the part that differentiates my blog writings from being my version of real life and being no more than an invented tall tale.

Over those drinks though This One asks me about the end of our evening. He stares at me across the table and says one question that forces me to pause and think strategically. We are throwing one another these complex volleys of human intention and strategizing our way through the evening.

¨ So Lindsay, tell me…how is tonight going to end?¨

I pause.

¨Well, I think you’re going to walk me home. I think you’re going to try and kiss me, and then I think I’m going to tell you goodnight.¨

*  *  *

Which is more or less what happens. He makes me take his arm and we walk from near the Opéra across the Seine to my place. By the end he is holding my hand and as we traverse the bridge leading from the Louvre to the rue du Bac, we see the lights glimmer like flakes of gold on the rippling surface of the river.

¨Beautiful night, beautiful city, and a man standing next to you, what more could you want?¨ He asks with a smile.

¨Nothing,¨ I say. And I truly mean it.

This One walks me to my door, without hesitation kisses me, lingers for a while. Tells me to make him leave when I need to make him leave, but that he really wants to see me again.

¨I really want to see you again, too.¨ We kiss one more time, and then not long after, I send him on his way.

*  *  *

Now the panic and the doubts set in: what if he really is just playing with me? What if he says he wants to see me again but really doesn’t? How can I be sure he isn’t going to see ten other girls at the same time, that this is not a Parisian séducteur toying with me? Already his age would be a step in the opposite direction, but I can’t yet gauge what his motives are.

Oh lord, I want nothing more than to run in the other direction as fast as I can and to find every excuse to drop this right now, find everything I can to wiggle my way out of this one before my heart gets smashed into a million pieces.

This is pure panic. This is me being terrified because I don’t get terrified like this unless I think I could really have something with someone,  because I don’t let just anyone get near me.  I feel unglued and in over my head.

But I’m also smarter this time: this is not just about me fitting his standards, it’s also about me having demands and not settling for less. I’ve learned this the hard way. It’s about me knowing what I’m worth and not settling for less.

He texted again on Sunday nonetheless after I said hello and said to message him upon my return….I’ve conveniently run off to Bretagne for three weeks ( no joke, but it was pre-planned before I met him).

I told him this when he mentioned taking me to a Bastille Day party. 

¨It’s a bummer,¨ he said, ¨But it’s only three weeks.¨

With a bit of a heavy heart I left Paris when now I would really rather be watching the fireworks during his fête nationale.

To his text message he added:

¨Wanna see you again for sure.¨

Now for a three week cool my sh*t period where I hit the breaks, don’t go from 0 to 60 in 3.5 seconds, and find a way to set the pace of this game.

Let's hope the game resumes quickly upon my return in two weeks. 

Heart on my Sleeve

     Last night, I slept horribly. I tossed and turned and waged war on the mattress. After two hours of battling my ever whirling mind, I said screw it and sat up from 3:30 to 4. If I was going to be up I might as well be productive, I thought. So I finally copyrighted this blog and did some research on Autoentrepreneurial status in France.

     But sleep did not come.

     I am so stupid giddy excited about seeing the Berkeley Frenchie that I slept like a five year old on Christmas Eve waiting for Santa, which means to say I hardly slept at all. I probably finally konked out around 5 am and then woke up at 7:30 am. A disco nap is going to be in order.

      Oh boy.

      I confess that I am probably more Charlotte York than I am Carrie Bradshaw and my romantic streak sweeps me away  ( though trust me, I've gotten FAR better than I used to be! ).
This streak of mine doesn't affect my standards though, so I confess again that I'm a choosy beotch about who I invest my time and energy in, which means I don't do so often. Which also means I think this one worth it. Quite possible very worth it.

      Oh lordy lordy, I need to cool my sh*t.

     I've never been good at playing poker face.

     But this is going to be so much fun anyway! 

     I tend to wear my heart on my sleeve.

    Deep breath.
     

Call Me Maybe

     So he didn't call...but he DEFINITELY e-mailed ( a LOT ) and I can tell you, I haven't been this excited for a date, so damn excited, not even a bit of nervousness, EXCITED, want-it-to-be-here-already EXCITED

      in

      I

      don't know how

      long.

      CAN IT PLEASE BE THURSDAY AT 8 PM ALREADY???

      AHHHHH!!!!


      Good lord, why am I such a girl!?