Back then...

I was browsing through my photos from this time last year. Just out of curiosity, what was I doing?

Velibing, bien sur.

Noticing new street art….

… and emerging from the Hotel de Ville Metro stop in the evening to see it shine in the evening light.

Going to fashion week parties where the people were fabulous, the champagne, abundant, and the men… skinny.

Hey boys...

Would you mind pulling your pants up?? It's 2010 and the jeans-around-your-waist look is over and I'm sick of looking at your sad underwear.

What’s been eating at me

I had drinks with Mel tonight. What can I say. Real, deep, soulful friends in general, and Mel in particular—well, if you’ve had the joy of having a soul sister, and if you’re lucky to know my Mel, you know it was a good night. To connect, to share, to support and be supported. To laugh at ourselves, at each other, but mostly at the douche bags who make themselves known in a bar after a certain hour. It was a short, sweet, very much needed night.

As is often the case after a good heart-to-heart, I have to pause and think what’s going on with me: in my mind, my heart and my spirit. There’s a little ennui and winter doldrums happening, bien sur. But a few things have been percolating lately.

• Work. My new creative director is awesome. Ahhh, I am relieved and elated and couldn’t be happier with him as a person or a boss. Gone are the days of feeling overloaded and overwhelmed. I can’t believe we had no leadership for five months.

And yet.

I’ve been having that dreading-going-to-work feeling. I walk into the office and feel deflated and defeated. What is it exactly? The space, for one. It’s a mess. I’ve had four desks in two months. They’re totally out in the open—we’re all sitting together in the same room, computers exposed, no telephones, no privacy, just huddled together. But there’s no togetherness. There’s no character, no soul, no fun. And that’s how I feel about my colleagues and the French in general: cold. Unfeeling. Unwelcoming. When I do get a tremor or warmth or compassion or a glimpse of goofiness, I swell up a water balloon that’s going to pop. What’s this feeling?! Where is it coming from? Where has it been hiding? It’s been absent for so long, I don’t know what to do with it. Because I don’t really trust anyone at work. Everyone is there to do a job and that’s all. There’s no empathy or bonding or spirit, and when I have experienced those one day, they're gone the next. It's a totally different culture.

• Milo. He’s so needy. Yes, he’s adorable and I love him and am so happy I have him here with me. But he’s literally always meowing for more food, more attention, more play. And the more I give him, the more he needs. He drives me batty.

• No time. I’m trying to do too much. This is something I do all the time. I don’t like saying no to social or professional opportunities. But I also know I’m a cranky mouse when I’m tired and spread too thin. So I need to make commitments to some projects and drop the others. Hmmm… on the to-do list.

And I’m pissed I haven’t met anyone. There. I’ve said it. I try to be a good sport about being single. I try to rationalize and defend and really understand why I’ve had not one date in 10 months in the City of Loooove. But I walk down the street and see all the misfits who have found someone, I see the idiots who don’t know how good they have it, I see gorgeous creatures staring into each other’s eyes, oblivious to any- and everything except their elation and emotion and connection to this one other person. And I think, what about me? I’m not Giselle, but I’m not chopped liver. Why haven’t I met anyone? This is bullshit.

Voila. State of the union. Stay tuned.

37 say "oui"

Two days until the casting call for the big American/French dating show. 37 of you thought I should go for it, and I appreciate every one of you who took the time to weigh in and give me the nudge to be a big American dork in Paris.

But after all, for better or worse, I won't be around the participate. I'm off the New York for two weeks for a mix of work and fun. I probably won't be writing as much due to all the chocolate chip cookies I'll be consuming. But maybe I'll find time to find an American boy while home. Maybe not. In any case, let's all keep the adventures going!

Should I, or shouldn't I?

TV DATING GAME SHOW FOR AMERICAN TV.
 
We are looking for single Americans living in Paris for a new dating game show to be filmed in Paris. Casting takes place Nov 23-25 in Paris. Filming takes place early December. 15/16th in Paris.
 
Open casting, all welcome to attend. Have to be single, not married. Age range 21 minimum. American nationals only. No pay for the pilot.
 
Extroverted, Americans who live in Paris are encouraged to apply. Pilot show for an American TV network. No TV experience needed.
 
Please email for details or call
PAUL HARDY
212 507 9700
Embassy Row Productions

So... should I, or shouldn't I? Please weigh in on the poll to the top right.

Man bags are in

Big, expensive man bags.

Am I dating?

I’ve been here four months and everyone always asks. I like this question for two reasons.

For one, it’s a conversation stopper. In a word, no, I’m not.

But on the other hand, it’s a conversation starter: well, why not?? I’m single. It’s the city of loooove. I came in the spring, and now it’s summer. All of these factors should be aligning to create a sizzling dating season with infinite opportunities.

So I have to examine why I’m still single. It’s certainly not by choice. God, I would love to meet someone. But so far, I’ve only met three twenty-somethings, none of whom seems to be an appropriate match.

There was the infamous 28-year-old Swede.

Then, on holiday with Mel, I met a 26-year-old Brit. He’s a doll. But he’s 10 years younger than me. And he lives in another country.

And then there’s the young one at work. Adorable. Sweet. But adorable, sweet, young, and a colleague.

So I keep trying. There was the guy at the Pretenders concert, who was older than me. I thought that could have been something. But now he’s on a month-long vacation with his 11-year-old daughter so I’m pretty sure that’s going nowhere.

I also met an intriguing guy—my age—at an art gallery party over the weekend. But I suspect he is more fascinated with himself than by me. Another dead end.

So, no, I’m not dating. Which I find both funny and pathetic. But c’est la vie.

After the show

Monday night’s concert was awesome. But what made it even better was that I met a guy at the show.

Okay, he’s not the love of my life. In fact, I haven’t heard from him since, so I’ll probably never see him again. But it was still a triumph for two reasons. 1) I put myself out there and made it happen: I accomplished the near-impossible feat of meeting a local here in Paris! And 2) We hung out, talking for three hours—en francais!—and I did a reasonably good job of keeping up. Granted, he did almost all the talking and I’m pretty sure I checked out for about an hour of it, but still…

So how did I make 1 and 2 happen?

We were standing next to each other at the show, both alone. I was totally aware the whole time that I was standing next to a single, attractive guy and knew I needed to seize the opportunity. I kept thinking: What would Amee do?? In New York, AJ always pushed me to be open, to make eye contact, to not put pressure on myself and just enjoy meeting people. So I exchanged a couple comments about our mutual idol, Chrissie Hynde, with him. Contact, success. At the end of the show, as we were getting herded out of the sweaty venue, we chatted a little more—he, being very gracious about my butchered French. Once we were outside, he asked me if I wanted to get a drink. I did. So we did!

We went to a café on rue Abbesses, and he did most of the talking. But I was proud and excited that I kept up—probably because we were talking about interesting things like music, traveling, France and politics. He was cool. I liked him. I will say, towards the end, he got very French on me—he was talking, talking, talking, super fast and animated, and that’s when I sort of checked out, wondering if all French people just really like hearing themselves pontificate. Plus, it was like 1:30 and I was ready to go home and sleep. I just didn't want to commit the worst faux pas of suddenly saying 'it's time for me to go' when he was talking about the meaning of life or something. And here in Paris, you can’t rely on the service to come to your rescue. After our drinks were delivered, we didn’t see our waiter until we flagged him down, three hours later.

But at the end of the night, we exchanged numbers. I could text him, I suppose. Amee would. But I sort of feel like things started on a French foot, and it would be too (ugly) American of me to do that. So, I will wait. We’ll see if he likes me, or if he likes me not.

My first flirtation with a date

I was going to call it my first date, but meeting a Swedish trust fund baby for a drink at midnight isn’t exactly that, is it?

So, no, I wasn’t thinking of it as a date. I met this guy out one night with Michael a couple weeks ago and we all chatted and exchanged numbers in a friendly way. With my Paris motto of being open and saying yes to (almost) everything, I agreed to meet him for a drink.

We arranged to meet at 11:30 as we were both out with other friends earlier in the night. He suggested we meet outside a pub right near my apartment, which was convenient to me. But he was late. And the pub is on Rue Saint-Denis. As I was just standing around, and it was on Rue Saint-Denis, I felt like a hooker. I didn’t look like a hooker (I don’t think), but that didn’t stop lecherous men from getting in my face. I was just about to text him and cancel when he called and told me to go to another bar and he’d be right there. Annoying. But I went with it. (Be open! Say yes!)

He got to the bar, ordered a drink and we were hanging out and chatting. He was a little manic, a little flirtatious, and then he leaned over and started making out with me. He wasn't a good kisser. But I went with it, still being open! Saying yes! Then he asked if we should go home (together) or go meet his friends at a bar. I laughed in his face and agreed to go for another drink.

So we left the bar, ostensibly to meet his friends (my bullshit sensor on high alert), and on the way were drawn into another bar by the music. We went in and I think—guessing from the bartender’s facial expressions—he was trying to mooch or sweet talk a free drink. She didn’t fall for it, and he ended up ordering one drink—vodka with mint liquor. It tasted like mouthwash. Because, yes, he ordered just one drink, didn’t ask me what I wanted, but he let me take sips of his. And he kept periodically leaning over and mauling me. But what can I say? It was one of those things where I was so aware of the absurdity of him and the situation, but I didn't care. (Be open! Say yes!) He also kept asking me, “Don't you want to go home with an arrogant bastard?? Don’t you want to be able to tell your friends you went home with a hot Parisian??' Seriously.

Finally, he wanted to go to one more bar, and we were walking further and further away from my apartment, and I was getting more and more wary, and his kissing was getting progressively fiercer and dumber. But I went along to one more bar, where I refused to do a shot with him. So he started getting all offended, and that was my cue that it was time to go. It was 1:15 and had my French lesson at 8:30, and I was done. So I told him I was going home, and he started insisting that I walk him to this club so I can get him in for free! He said I had to go to the club with him and then I could leave! Yeah, right. Finally I just left him at the bar and hustled home.

I got home, soooo happy, and my phone rang and he wanted to come over. Of course I said no thanks and goodbye.

But it keeps going.

I woke up to the ringing phone at 3:45 and ignored it. But it kept ringing. I looked and there were *12* missed calls. Not knowing how to turn my phone off (seriously), I dislodged the battery and fell back into bed.

Then, this morning, he called at 8:30. And asked if he should come over.

I am still laughing as I type this.

French men: A few observations

• They wear Levi’s. This, I love. Men look sexy in Levi’s.
• They wear jewelry*. Gold and silver chain necklaces and bracelets. This, I don’t love. Not sexy. Not for me, anyway.
• They’re pretty short. This, I don’t really care about one way or another. But as a whole, French men are short. Just an observation.

* Gold chains and silver bracelets may be favored here but wedding rings are not. I’ve heard men here in the office mention their wives or kids and yet they don’t wear a ring. So while having lunch today with two male colleagues, I took the opportunity to ask them about it. They’re both married. One wears a ring, one doesn’t.

My colleague who doesn’t wear a wedding band said that he personally doesn’t like the way a it feels. It’s distracting, uncomfortable, etc, etc. I asked if his wife (of nine years) wears one and he said no—because he doesn’t. That, I love.

But both the ring-wearer and non-ring-wearer said there’s another reason men don’t wear wedding bands. In short, they’re dogs.

So there’s some truth to the French stereotype that there’s beaucoup infidelity going on. My colleagues said men—particularly in their late 20s and 30s—want to be seen as single so they’ll either skip the ring altogether or be especially sleazy and remove it when in mixed company. Nice.

Cute men below!

I had one of those fuckfuckfuck moments last night.

I left work by 6:30 in order to enjoy the long, sunny evening (we just turned our clocks ahead this weekend). I did a little shopping on Rue Montorgrueil, enjoying the sights and vibe, and then started climbing those stairs to my apartment. I put my key in the door, turned and pulled. Nothing happened. I jiggled the key, pulled harder, and still nothing. Etc, etc, etc. I kept doing this, more and more frantically until I realized it wasn’t the key or my technique, but the door was busted and I wasn’t getting in. Fuckfuckfuck!

Naturally, I didn’t have the number of my landlord (trust me, I do now) and it’s not the kind of building where you can knock on doors, trying to track someone down. So I decided to wait out front, hoping for Alexandre to roll up on his bicycle.

As I sat chomping the baguette I had just bought, without the cheese I got to go with it (yes, I bought cheese and bread for dinner), I noticed there was a little office right next door, with people still working. Perfect. I could ask to use a computer and then access my work email, which had Alexandre’s phone number.

Okay, so that’s all the long way of saying, I was flustered and anxious, and only more so when I entered this cool little office where five cute hipster dudes were hanging out and working. I tried bumbling my way through the French explanation of what I needed and finally one of the guys told me in English to go ahead and use his computer. As I sat there, trying to retrieve this phone number, slowly pecking at the French keyboard, they all sat around talking.

Perfect opportunity to meet some guys, right? To make some friends? They run a little event planning company, right next door to my apartment. Perfect opportunity to score some party invites, right? I wish. They were so cute, but so damn aloof. Some random American girl just barges in their office, and it didn’t phase them one bit. They weren’t curious or concerned. And my French is such crap and my mind was racing, I wasn’t equipped to seize the opportunity.

Later, after Alexandre came and got me into my apartment (hopefully the locksmith came today to fix the door), AJ and I decided that the seeds have been sewn and seize the opportunity, I shall. We decided I should play the eager, smiley American—maybe a big American cross between Julia Child and Jessica Simpson—and bake those boys some chocolate chip cookies!

French men

Many of you are convinced I’m going to meet a “l’homme francaise” here in Paris.

And Julie asked recently: How are the boys in Paris? Particularly cute? Charming? Aloof?

I’ve been pondering all this myself, of course. And I would say men here fall into two camps: Rive Droite and Rive Gauche.

Rive Droite men are sharp, coiffed and classically handsome. They walk purposefully, carry fine leather bags and stare you in the eyes.

Rive Gauche men are dirty and sexy. I walked by a guy in Saint Germaine with longish hair in a headband, wearing baggy jeans and a cardigan and he was so… hot. Who knew??

I have no idea what to expect of the men here. But if I steered my fate to Paris, then maybe un homme is the next thing coming. A girl can dream.