"Be careful what you wish for..."

I feel I need to preface the following vignette with a disclaimer:
I am not that vain.

Because it occurred to me after the following incident that, in the last week, I’ve written about being asked out by French strangers three times. Which makes it sound like I am just writing to make you think I have this glamourous life where strangers and romance and brie and candlelight combine to make the most wonderful kind of youth.

But the real reason I keep writing about these incidents is because they are always so dang hilarious. Kind of.

See, the thing is, I am really bad at new romance. Some people are good at it, and can handle being asked out by a stranger– even one they are not interested in– with grace and tact. I have never been one of them. I pale at the slightest hint of awkwardness, and once claimed to a group of girlfriends that I was going to pass up the possibility of romance for an entire summer because "I didn’t want to have to deal with the details." Who says that? I am so useless when it comes to things like that. Add to this the fact that I am 21 years old and still completely oblivious to all but the most romantic of gestures, and you have a dangerous combination when I am put in the most romantic city in the world.

So I went grocery shopping today. I had absolutely nothing to eat in my little cupboard except a bag of Craisins and some chicken bouillon, neither of which is any good for nutrition. So I took my little wheely bag thing to Monoprix, and commenced to but the entire store out. Almost. My Monoprix has an entire mini-fromager inside it; it’s like the deli in a US grocery store, but all they have is cheese, and it is, of course, not in glass cases, but just sitting around on display. I’ve only bought cheese from the Monoprix fromager once, because I’m not exactly sure how to do it (do you ask for something not strong? Or a specific type of cheese? Or a specific wheel in front of you?), so it always makes me nervous. I content myself with the pre-wrapped bits in the fridge section. But today I decided I really wanted good, fresh brie and I am in France after all, so I might as well use the cheese bar, right?

Oh man. I am cringing as I write this, because now comes the part where my own COMPLETE LACK OF SMOOTHNESS is revealed for all to see.

So I walk up to the fromage counter, and before I’ve had a chance to properly look around, this tiny little woman walks out from the back and hollers to another employee that there was a customer waiting. So this guy about my age walks out from the back (now is when I should have gotten worried, based on all my OTHER interactions with French guys about my age), and asks what I want. I have this completely confused look on my face as I mutter, "Ahh, je voudrais un petit peu de brie, s’il vous plaît." "I’d like a tiny bit of brie, please."
He grabs his knife and hauls me with him to the other end of the thing and, I noticed just then a man coming at me riding on what was either a zamboni or a floor waxer, and since I was in my two-and-a-half-inch high boots, I immediately got nervous because I was not only about to be run over, but if I avoided that dire fate, I would be condemned to walking over waxy or icy flooring immediately after, and I am bad enough at that in sneaks, but in cheap peserk heels from a discount shoe store in Chinatown? No dice, man. I am thinking all of this when I notice the guy looking at me expecting an answer, and I say, lamely, "Pardon?" and he looks around for a second to make sure no one is around and then practically whispers, "T’aimes bien pshhherpsherpersherpernich?" Or at least this is what it sounds to my non-native ear. And remember also that there was a ZAMBONI approaching, so I’ve got the roar of the hockey machine in one ear, my earbud playing Incubus’ "A Certain Shade Of Green" in the other, and this guy standing in front of me mumbling something for which he wants an answer. I motion that I want much less brie than the mega wedge he is about to slice for me, hoping I’ve just answered whatever riddle he has posed me, when he looks up and I realize I haven’t. [At this point I STILL DON’T REALIZE I WAS BEING MACKED ON. How is it possible for one girl to be THIS oblivious?] So I mumble, "Ahh, I don’t know," since the question was obviously NOT yes or no, but I just wanted out as quickly as possible. He gives me a funny half-smile and repeats, "You don’t know, huh?" in this cocky way, but undeterred, asks in French, if I am English. I always say yes to this, and I don’t know why, because the French and English hate each other with this kind of imaginary loathing in the same way that Americans think Canadians are lame (ehh?) and Canadians think Americans are stupid. But for some reason I think it’s a huge compliment when people think I am English instead of American. But I decided to be honest with this guy (big mistake– where did I get morals all of a sudden?), and said I was American. He asks if I speak French, which is a valid question after how simple I must have appeared, due to the earbud/riding waxer combination. At this point I realize what was up, and he literally waited until his boss walked out of earshot, ducked toward me (Zamboni still roaring like a Beattyville 4-wheeler in need of a muffler), and asks for my number.

I can only imagine the face I must have had at this moment. Trying to collect my wits after being surprise attacked in line at the CHEESE counter of all places, trying to figure out something to say, "No, wait, it has to be in French!" and trying to just get away as quickly as possible. In the US, I have the number of the Rejection Hotline, which is a number you can give out that SEEMS like a legit phone number but when you call it, it’s just a recorded voice telling you someone you met didn’t like you as much as it seemed, which is the easiest way out of a situation like this in the States, where everyone has a phone and you pretty much can’t claim you don’t.
Instead of making up a number (which is just kind of cruel), or even making up a boyfriend, I blurt "No." Just like that.

It wasn’t even like a coquettish, she’s-playing-coy-but-still-isn’t-going-to-cooperate kind of no– it was a complete declarative. I could HEAR the period at the end of the word. Which I didn’t mean to do, because that is kind of rude– so I try to make amends. This, in halted French, "I mean, uh, I don’t have a phone..." (Now notice how one lie begets another)
"You don’t have a phone?" he asks, in that way the jock in high school talks to the cheerleaders, which I immediately resent because have I ever been friends with a jock? No. But he sounds like he doesn’t believe me (maybe he was smarter than I gave him credit for), so I add,
"No, not yet."
"Not yet?" he asks, prompting an explanation.
"Yeah, not yet... because I only arrived a couple weeks ago... I haven’t had time..." and at this point I am floundering, and realizing that I just keep digging myself deeper when I could have just said "Je suis desolee, mais mon petit copain est la..." "Sorry, my boyfriend is right over there..." I have said that before too, which is really useful if you’re in a crowd and no one can tell who you are pointing at– just pick the line for the bathroom or something and you’ll be good to go. But for some reason that escaped me... and so I started with the lies. This guy was determined, though, I’ve gotta give him that– he had to repeat nearly everything he said, in part because he was whispering to avoid being caught by his boss and in part because I am so utterly incompetent at this language, and he still persisted. Let’s hypothesize a little, shall we?
What if he hadn’t struck me as slightly sketch, what if I had given him my number, and he had called, and we had gone out to dinner. Did he not realize that I am still not really capable of carrying my end of a young-person kind of conversation? Or did it just not matter to him?
This is, I’m sure, some kind of instant karma that I am getting because I spent Valentine’s Day wondering why I was single in the City Of Lights. Either that or Parisian guys really like moptops.

The worst thing to come out of this, though, is the fact that now I can really never go to the cheese counter again, which means I am condemned to a life of packaged cheeses in a city with 350 varieties at the counter waiting to be sliced and wrapped in paper for me.

Never thought the song was about me,
B

P.S. Disappointment of the week: was supposed to go to an Incubus show tonight (a band on the label I’m going to work for this summer, who happens to be awesome), and they cancelled! At 230pm on the day of! Which would be ok if I were going to be here when they reschedule, but I will be back in the US, which doesn’t help anything. And I understand that hand surgery is kind of a big deal and requires two or three months to get over, but still– I mean, you could have realized that BEFORE five hours before the show? And after all, back-up guitarist blah blah... the show must go on, right? Come on, it would have been fine with one what’s-his-name missing. Honestly.
Though when I called my mom to whine about it, she pointed out that "Honey, you’re going to be in LA all summer, you’ll be hanging out with people like that everyday!" Which is not quite true, but like Dane Cook says, leave it to Moms to remind you that life still rocks.