Dating a french person
We had nearly finished the weeks-long process of establishing my FATCA-compliant banking account, and as he printed the last of the forms for my signature, he suggested we celebrate the completion of my paperwork with a drink. “Maybe we should wait until I speak French fluently,” I said. I remember being more surprised by the timing than anything else: It was on a Saturday night. In the end, I did not complete that essay, and I found another French tutor, a communist Ph. candidate whose lessons consisted chiefly of telling stories I half-comprehended about her unsatisfying lovers from anglophone countries.
“That,” he said, actually twisting his wedding band, “will take much too long.” The second married Frenchman to ask me on a date was the owner of the chicken rotisserie stand across the street from my apartment. From that point on, I avoided French men — not exactly an easy feat when you’re living on their turf.
He sent me pictures from dinner with his longtime friends, three men his age smiling in front of a camera over plates of raclette.
He was very good at sex, an act that was nearly always precipitated by the presentation of a small box of pastries, usually eclairs.
For me, the woman who best embodies this duality is Isabelle Adjani.
It has to do with our origins, a mix of Latin and Celtic.