In Paris, you’re striding to catch your metro, or strolling Jardin des Tuileries, when you’re approached by a man. He asks you the hour, or
Connaissez-vous où est la Rue des Grands Boulevards?
then offers his 06. Turn this one down. He’s probably done the same thing to twelve other sheilas.
Or you’re at Sacre Coeur, and you see a boy lay a bordeaux colored scarf next to a girl reading a book. You see a surprised expression become over her face, and that she hurries to another shaded tree. Maybe turn this one down, too.
Better yet, you go to a language exchange group in the heart of Paris. You meet a caravan of new people! People who are interested in learning English and experiencing a new culture. He’s there, mildly charmed by your American accent (mildly friends, mildly) and your blog. After all, you’re cute and foreign. So, he suggests that you get together that weekend, to chat and grab a drink.
Veux-tu prendre un verre?
You RDV at some Metro Station, though you swore you would never meet a bloke at the Metro Station. He takes you to a museum, or maybe a park or the swimming pool, rock climbing or the outdoor markets. You love the outdoor markets. Then, you walk along the Seine and settle at a cozy but overcrowded cafe. You talk about books and movies, even though you hate movies, because you find it disagreeable to sit still. But in general, you find they are creative, The French Boys.
In the evening, he takes you to the théâtre, or a comedy show. The show is in English, or has to do with the United States. He wants to share your culture with you, but little does he know that all you want to do is learn French. You can see an English movie in the States, yo. But that is of little importance, and you have a grand time anyway.
After the show, you take a Vespa tour of Paris by night. You eventually have a ridiculously late European dinner. It is near 21h00 when you finally open a menu at his favorite galettes de Bretagne restaurant. Or, he might suggest that you cook something together, and you feast on duck, warm chèvre salad, chocolate cake, and matcha tea. It was probably you, who introduced the matcha tea.
At the end of the evening, he walks you home. He asks you every few minutes if you are able to walk in your heels. The chivalry is there, but like, you’re fine, dude. Chill. When you are finally in front of your door, the door to your tiny, un-airconditioned, over-populated Parisian flat, he kisses you goodnight. You close the door behind you, thinking you have a new standard for a good kiss. Because in France, every kiss, is a French kiss.
Based off a true story.