The Horrors of Parisian Dragueurs!

So...I think I've put it off for long enough...it may be time to tell you all of my new French love.

First of all, let me say that it is not easy to find romance in Paris. The French cultural codes for courting are about as clear as the air in a Parisian nightclub (read: not). I do have a very good book describing stereotypical French/American social misunderstandings, but the section describing romantic interactions in French society all presume that the couple has already been formed, and, as such, gives no advice useful to one seeking any kind of romance.

The only offers I seem to get are from "les Dragueurs," the men who attempt to pick up women on the street, the metro, wherever. Every American woman finds herself prey to these hunters at least once in France, and after that she learns very quickly to imitate the Parisian women in their frostiness. I had to learn my lesson twice.

First a man in Tours approached me while I was innocently taking "artsy" photographs in a park. Not that they had any actual artistic virtues, but they were atempting some kind of aesthetic, so I suppose that is the most fitting title for them. I had been happily walking through the park, looking around, as one does when searching for photographic things in a park, and my gaze met, for the briefest instant, with that of a man sitting on a bench. But apparently in France one cannot smile at the beauty of the world without issuing invitations to men on benches, and so this man felt perfectly at ease approaching me, asking me about my photographs, my plans for the day, and then proceeding to accompany me as I carried said plans out. Now, in the US, if a woman ignores a man he eventually goes away. And if she repeatedly and firmly, though kindly, rejects his invitations for drinks, dinner, dessert, dancing, etc., refuses his compliments, and, when he expresses remorse that he may never see her again, answers with, "well, it doesn't bother me," he begins to see that perhaps there is the slightest chance that she is not at all interested, and he buggers off, to use the English term. But in France, all of these signals will not deter said drageur from following the woman for a full half hour, forty-five minutes. In fact, it was not until this ...person... had actually been so bold as to playfully poke my stomach that I sent him my Look O'Death, which, I am grateful to say, was effective in getting the wanker to piss off.

But Paris was much, much worse. What perhaps bothered me most about "the Paris Incident" was that the gentleman stalker appeared at first to be the former (a gentleman) rather than the latter. I met him when signing up for my English course at the University; after he helped me find the proper room we struck up conversation. I learned that he had finished his masters in Math and was teaching courses while pursing his dream of opening an Italian restaurant (I know...the Math and the restaurant don't add up...he couldn't explain it either...). He spoke English and found my French charming, and I took his number with every intention of calling it, glad at my success in finding a normal Frenchman to help me understand the nuances of French dating.

But ol' Gabs just couldn't leave it at that. After leaving the meeting with my professor, I ran into him on my way out. I was headed to work, but I was willing to give him a 20 second run-down of the meeting and the customary French cheek kisses before dashing off to the RER station. But about 5 minutes after leaving the building, I heard my voice behind me and found that Gabriel had, without alerting me to the fact, followed me for some blocks. A bit creeped out, I requested that he point me to the Metro, thinking that the Parisian would know a bit of Paris. But he proceeded to steer me in entirely the wrong direction dispite my protests and map, making my detour all the more awful by describing his plans for our date that he had decided would take place the following week. The details of an Italian dinner, a movie, maybe some dancing if the night isn't too late--all of which I like, under normal circumstances--grated on my ears. I wasn't truly angry until I realized that his misdirection had ensured that I would be late for work, and leaving a five year old girl waiting at her school thinking she's forgotten is not something I take lightly. It earned him a Look O'Death... that had absolutely no effect. That's one thing about living in Paris: you get used to public hostility.

As I soon as I'd untangled the knot of a route he had woven, I silently and furiously made my way to the Luxembourg stop. Gabby accompanied me, quite unwanted and unacknowledged, as I descended and caught my first line. As I made my change at the enormous Chatelet stop, I took comfort in the crowds of people that I darted quickly between to evade him. Surely I had managed to loose him. Surely. But no. As I boarded the purple line I was horrified to find my stalker as close on my heels as ever. Something had to be done.
"So where are you going," I asked in my most intimidating and hostile English.
"Weell, were ahr you goeen?" he asked. Oooo, no, I am far too smart for that. A four year old who has been warned by McGruff the Crime Dog not to talk to strangers is too smart to fall for that. Of course, said four-year old probably could have warned me not to talk to this creep in the first place, too...
"I asked you first."
"Weell, en fait, I weell ride zis to ze end of ze leen et meke a connesion zere."
"Well I'm getting off at Madeline. Because it's close to where my job is. Not close to where I live. I live far, far away from there, so if you're going to look for where I live, I'll give you a hint, NOT NEAR MADELINE." (I live about 3 minutes from Madeline, in the same building as the girl I sit for.)
"O. Butt, ah, you weell col me nezt weeek pour la rendez-vous?"
"Yes. Of course." (Not a chance in Hell.)
"O. Okey. Good, becuz I wood laike to eet Italien food wiz--"
"Here's my stop, gotta go!"
I descended and waited to watch the train pull away with my stalker still on it before I breathed a great big sigh of relief and ran to assure a crying Marie that I had not forgotten her.

Horrifying, eh? In fact, retelling these tales has completely exhasted me emotionally, and I simply cannot continue, even to tell you of the charming new sweetheart who freqently occupies my thoughts... *lovesick sigh.* So you may all eagerly anticipate part two of this tale quite soon. Until then, I send you all the love I can spare (though that quantity is deminishing daily!)