l'amour Part Three: The "Category Three" Offender

Allow me to address the uncomfortable subject of what I, in a previous blog, indelicately referred to as the "dick picture", but from this day on shall be officially known as a "Category Three" (you heard it here first!) As I mentioned in Part One of the "l'amour" series, after I divorced and threw my hat into the internet dating ring I noticed three distinct categories of respondants; Younger Men, Married Men, and the Category Three Offender - the man who introduces himself with a picture of his penis. (I warned you this was an uncomfortable subject!) Does the Category Three begin his response with a friendly "Hello, my name is Steve, I'm a single dad with two teenage kids....."? No. Perhaps a "Hi I'm Chuck, I liked your profile and would like to invite you for coffee..." Wrong again. You open your email, (hoping that George Clooney has finally come to his senses and started trawling Yahoo Personals instead of coctail lounges, and is utterly transfixed by you) only to be confronted with an unsolicited, and more often than not, unimpressive zizi. The first time it happened, I was in an internet café when up popped such a picture, full screen! (no pun intended) It was the WTF moment of the day-perhaps even the week. Now, my friends know that I am not shy, but I nervously looked behind my shoulder as I hit "delete", hoping the little boys playing World of Warcraft nearby remained oblivious. I was experiencing a myriad of emotions, from embarrassment to confusion to disgust, laced with a touch of humour and alot of curiosity - why would someone do such a thing? Does a Category Three often get lucky with this technique? Does he email scores of women in hopes that he impresses one enough to garner a reply? Or worse, was he a modern day "flasher", using the power of the internet to reach far more victims from the safety of his home? I had to know, so I asked a friend of mine who is a psychiatrist. In her opinion it is the latter, in cyberspace one has potential access to thousands of people, with minimal risk. I have however, noticed the occassional Category Three posted as a profile, sans manscape (sorry for the unwanted visual), and I remain curious as to the success rate as well as the mindset of this group. One thing I am sure of, it's just not correct!

Little Gems

One of the greatest pleasures of parisian life is discovering little gems hidden in plain sight around the city. The Théatre des Bouffes du Nord is one of those little gems, which I found last monday night thanks to my trusty sidekick Viviane: Goddess of Cultural Events. She invited me to a concert of classical music, and I readily accepted. Access to theatre, music, opera and dance is why I love Paris, it's a veritable candy store of cultural delights! You can satisfy your cravings 7 nights a week with any flavour that suits you, from classic vanille to rocky road. We traveled across town via metro ligne 2 to "St. Chappelle", in the indian quarter of Montmarte. (Note to self: return for Indian cuisine). The theatre is kitty corner to the metro, which pleased me immensely as it was -2° outside, and we scurried across the street to be greeted by two young parisiennes offering programs and a friendly welcome. V had called ahead for reservations, and out billets were waiting when we arrived. The foyer is simple, with a friendly little bar to the right and a pleasant looking café to the left. Our seats were on the first balcony and we ascended the worn wooden staircase, the boards creaking and groaning beneath us. Built in 1876 almost entirely of wood, it's narrow aisles arranged in the round and capable of seating 3 balconies of audience is at once charming and alarming-it appears a veritable firetrap! We found our seats, relaxed and perused the program. It was to begin with Johannes Brahms and after the entracte, "La Nuit Transfigurée" by Arnold Schoenberg. The musicians were Ilya Gringolts on violin, Marc Coppey on viola, and François-Frederic Guy on piano. I wasn't familiar with these particular compositions, and was eager to experience something new. The artists didn't disappoint- they were first rate musicians, and their choices for the evening led us on a journey layered with sensualité and emotion. My eyes wandered around the theatre as I listened to the music, and I imagined the bold production of 1882, "Revolutionaire Nadine" by the anarchist Louis Michel being performed in this very space. In her 134 year history, the Théatre des Bouffes du Nord has closed her doors twice (once for non payment of actors by the managment), changed her name, (and changed it back again) and survived vaudeville. Today she offers a variety of music and theatre, and according to V, always quality. I plan to return soon, and to try the café after the performance. If you wish to experience this little gem for yourself, they have a very comprehensive website. Simply go to: www.bouffesdunord.com , make your reservation, and enjoy your evening out!

Le Jardin Sculpture

In Paris, every first sunday of the month is "free museum day". Art being the lifeblood of the city, it is a wonderful concept that invites tourists and locals alike to enjoy her many treasures at no cost. From the modern galleries of the Pompidou and Espace Dali, to the classical art of the Louvre, there is much to discover. I always save the day and take advantage of the opportunity to stroll through the peaceful gardens of the Musée Rodin on sunny days, or if the weather is not so pleasant I like to take my sketch pad to the sculpture garden at the Louvre. Visiting the Louvre on free museum day is a little like being on main street at Disneyland on a sunday in summertime-or perhaps Grand Central Station during rush hour. You can forget getting anywhere near La Joconde (the Mona Lisa), it's just not going to happen. But the sculpture garden isn't as popular with visitors, so it is the perfect place to sit and draw. Light and airy, calm and quiet, it is replete with studies of the human form. Tales of mythological gods and history's luminaries are masterfully carved in stone, their expressions exuding powerful emotion, their body language bringing to life the stories they tell. It is one of my favorite places in Paris. I have always been intrigued by sculpture, especially when the medium is marble. Strong yet fickle, a tiny fissure can turn many hours of labor into dust in the blink of an eye. I am in awe as I gaze at the detail of each piece, how the masters have manipulated stone into musculature, delicate folds of fabric, clusters of grapes. C'est magnifique! I have my favorites of course; Hercules (slaying the serpent), The Three Graces, Captifs. I never tire of them, and I see something new in each piece every time I visit. I wonder if they come to life at closing time comme the movie "A Night at the Museum"? I think yes!

l'amour part deux: The Married Man

It seems that in France everyone is making love with someone other than their epouse. I am sure this comes as no suprise as this fact has become ingrained in the mythology of the french lover, but even unshockable moi was a little taken aback by the magnitude of the situation. I am often approached in the metro, restaurants, and even on the street as I move about, minding my own business. Of course I am not interested in being picked up on the street, in fact I find it a bit unsettling when strangers are "creeping", nevertheless it happens. Occasionally there is an interesting looking-ok, f-ing gorgeous-man on the train who picques my interest, until I check his ring finger....married! I am not making any moral judgements, far be it from me to do so. I am just not wired for being number two. I will give frenchmen this: at least they are open about their marital status, and they will tell you up front they are not going to quit their wives. Of course, there is an exception to every rule. Meet "Bernard." Bernie responded to my profile posted on an online dating site. He seemed pleasant, possesing intelligence so highly valued in french society-as well as a good sense of humour and handsome features. We began corresponding, exchanging email a couple of times a week. He was, as he explained, working in the U.S. for a few months and returning to France soon. He had an apartment in the 15th arrondissment, as well as a lovely home in Normandy. The photos of the Normandy location he shared were impressive, a 15th century maison surrounded by trees and flowering shrubs. It was quaint and typically french, complete with peeling plaster, ancient beams, and windowboxes brimming with geraniums. Soon, I began receiving a message from him everyday, and he confessed that he looked forward to finding the same from me in his inbox first thing in the morning. Our communications escalated into daily phone calls, always interesting and intellectual, never smutty. In fact, he never brought up the subject of sex, and none of the photos he provided of himself included a peek at his penis. (Thankfully.) I found I was rather enjoying our little e-lationship, even though I wasn't smitten. It was pleasant to talk with him, and I was curious to discover if we had any chemistry once we actually met in person. But one day something very unusual took place. He phoned me, as was his habitude, around 11 a.m. and we talked for nearly an hour. After ringing off, about 5 minutes later, my phone rang again. Bernie's number was displayed, and I thought it strange, but even more strangely, the call was aborted before I could answer. I shrugged off the oddity and went about preparing for my yoga class. Ten minutes later the phone rang again, the number showed it was him. I picked up and was greeted by a female voice, his secretary perhaps? "Is this Elizabeth?" she asked. "I am calling on behalf of Bernard (last name)". "Yes," I answered, "and you are?" "I'm his wife" she announced, sounding quite vexed (and rightfully so). I was stunned to say the least, my mouth gaping and my mind reeling. "May I ask the nature of your relationship?" she continued. Frankly, I had no idea what to say, but as he and I hadn't really met I told her we were "friends". She asked how I came to know her husband, and I told her we had become aquainted online. I was still in a state of shock, this had never happened (to me) before, and I wasn't sure how to react. I had a quick decision to make, did I have his back or did I have hers? It took about two seconds to arrive at the conclusion, I had hers. We began to talk openly, and this is what I discovered: She and Bernie had met on the very same dating site a year earlier, had a whirlwind romance that culminated in a beautiful, romantic wedding in Paris attended by friends from around the world. She had fallen hopelessly in love with him, and the fact that he was deeply in debt and unemployed didn't matter to her. She saw them as a team and had bailed him out of his financial troubles, including saving the Normandy property from imminent foreclosure. On top of that, she had created a position for him in her highly successful law firm in New England, thinking it would boost his self esteem and give him new purpose. Everything he owned she explained, was provided by her, his car, his cellphone, even his PC! But how did she get my number? How did she catch him in his little game? Here's how: It was lunchtime as she approached his office to suggest they go have a bite to eat. His door was shut however, and she overheard him talking on the phone. The tone of his voice suggested an intimacy incongruous to a business conversation, immediately her feminine intuition was aroused. She explained that she had 9 employees, and some years ago had aquired the ability to monitor their calls. She checked the lines, he was not using the office phone. She entered his office just as he hung up from me, and grabbed his cellphone, demanding to know who he was talking to. She hit redial, (that's when my phone rang briefly the first time). He grabbed the phone from her, aborting the call, but not before her quick eye and sharp mind found and memorized my name and number. After a brief and angry confrontation, she had kicked his sorry ass out of the office and telephoned me. Of course, I assured her I wanted nothing more to do with him, and it was the truth! I felt terrible that she had been taken in by a scam artist, and I felt lucky to have discovered the truth before I got in too deep. We ended the conversation with a strange bond between us, and I wished her well. We had one more conversation, she and I. She phoned the next day, somewhat aplogetically, because she wanted to confirm something he told her after the debacle. According to him, he was only talking to me because I was suicidal, the nerve of that man! Of course, she knew in her heart it was a lie. The good news was she had already consulted an attorney, filed for divorce, confiscated his car and computer, cut off his cellphone, and retrieved the keys to the office and her home, leaving him once again destitute and undoubtedly trolling the internet for his next mark. I wonder if she is now the proud owner of a home in Normandy? I'll never know, but I hope so. As for Bernie, he made himself scarce, for a couple of months anyway. Then one day I opened my mail to find a message from him, as if nothing unusual had transpired. "Hello Elizabeth, how are you? I am in Paris......" I won't repeat my reply, as the terms of use for this blog prohibits obscenity. The moral of the story is one we all know by now: You never really know who your talking to online!