Adventures in French Flings : Marc

 A boy, a bike and a beer ... Paris

A boy, a bike and a beer ... Paris

There comes a time in Parisian online dating where one starts to become slightly weary of sifting through dozens of sometimes bizarre profile photos.  I’m talking head-to-toe latex suits, selfies taken while clearly high or drunk (or both), masks hiding faces, grown men in nappies, or headless bodies in “dandy” suits.  

 

Not to mention that because my French language skills are limited and I tower over most men in my stilettos, the number of suitable candidates generally drops by a dispiriting fifty percent.

... bizarre photos of head-to-toe latex suits, selfies taken while clearly high or drunk (or both) ...

Reminding myself that the purpose of my adventures in French dating was to explore the diversity of French men - not necessarily meet Monsieur Perfect - I decided one day to scrape the Parisian barrel, and accepted an invitation to walk the banks of the Seine with Marc*.

Just a couple of inches taller than me, and admitting to having only “average” English skills, I knew ahead of time that there would be no second date, let alone that I would spend more than an hour with him. 

However, grâce à Marc, I spent one of the funniest hours in Paris, and experienced my fourth important lesson :

Lesson no 4 :
There are French men … and then there are Fwench men

Marc was typical of many French dates I’ve experienced in that he was very willing to walk for ages by my side, showing me the sights of Paris and explaining with pride the nature of French people.  All rather romantic. 

Except that right from the start, I could not get past his exceptionally strong French accent …

“You are Bahbawah?  Pleasure to meet you, Bahbawah.  You will be alwight to walk along the Seine in your high heels?”

Not to mention a bizarre habit of continuously referring to his obvious obsession with faire l’amour

… a bizarre habit of continuously referring to his obvious obsession with faire l’amour …

“We Fwench people are vewwy hard working, you know?  But when we stop work, we live life.  We make sex, we visit fwends, we visit gallewies.  We like to make sex.  We enjoy ourselves; we enjoy to eat, to dwink and make sex, you know?” 

I was dwinking hot chocolate at the time, and I almost spwayed it in the poor guy’s face. 

After more than an hour of listening to Marc’s particular bwand of fwench, I had had enough.

 I bid him au wevoir … and cwinged as soon as I heard myself.

 

* Not Marc’s weal name.