"Madame," the waiter smiled as he presented a beautifully plated dessert of raspberries, chocolate and a tuile of meringue. "Monsieur..." We returned his smile gratefully and Nick offered a "merci" as our tea was laid before us on a perfectly starched white linen tablecloth. The day was fine; balmy and warm, we were on a bateaux moored on the Seine with a breathtaking view of Notre Dame, and I was in the company of a tall, handsome Englishman. Who could ask for more? OK, I could - the only thing missing was a shot of Dramamine on the side! Oh la la, the bateaux was barely rocking on the gentle wake of the river, but I was feeling a bit queasy and trying not to show it. I found if I concentrated on the chocolate, and fixed my gaze on Mick's beautiful blue eyes I felt less nauseous, and the conversation was easy and interesting. Englishmen are so very different than the french; less chauvanistic and more deferential, more appreciative and less judgemental, less neurotic and more open. While most of my dating experiences with french men included - at some point - walking at least 5 paces behind, (a total dealbreaker) Mick took my hand in his, and we walked side by side around Paris. (5 bonus points!) I learned about his work, and could see that underneath his genteel exterior was the heart of a warrior. He was obviously a master chessman, a formidable foe at the negotiating table. And yet he possessed that most precious attribute; humility. "This is probably boring you" he said of his work, "I would much rather talk about you!" So we chatted on about hobbies and books and gardening and politics, shared our horror and disbelief regarding Sarah Palin, and discovered we had the same favorite movie, (Blazing Saddles). All the proper subjects for a first date - if Mick was Michel, he would have looked me dead in the eye and asked me (before we were presented with "l'addition"), "So, do yoo sink I am interes tink?" (Translation: "So, do you want to have sex afterward or shall we split the bill?") Now this question is a land mine for an Americaine new to the system and unaware of the cultural mores of french society. Not only is it embarrassingly direct, if you don't know that what he is asking is really not about the attributes of his personality, rather whether or not you intend to engage in unlawful carnal knowledge, you could easily walk into a trap of misunderstanding! But there was no ambiguity with my English gentleman, no embarrassing questions I didn't know how to answer. We finished our tea and pastries, and hand in hand continued our stroll along the Rive Gauche, admiring the various houseboats and pondering the unique lifestyle of a "River Rat". The sun had begun her slow descent toward late afternoon, bathing Paris in a rosy glow - the light a beautiful shade of pink I have never experienced anywhere else. The traffic on the street above increased with commuters heading home from work, but down along the river it was peaceful and calm, like a different world altogether. It's no wonder the Seine is a prefered location for lovers! We passed a young couple who were busily kissing; there is no "Get a room!" here, it is considered more vulgaire (like a prostitute), than PDA. Mick and I smiled knowingly, and he gave my hand a little squeeze. "I'll be here one more day" Mick said, "I'd like to take you to dinner tomorrow night - that is if you are free!" I was, and I accepted. "I wish I didn't have this dinner meeting tonight." We paused to watch a fisherman reel in a trout-like little Nemo, and he put his arm around my waist and gave me a little side hug. "I'd much rather spend the evening with you!" (Note: he clearly said "evening") I snuggled into his chest and he smelled good, a mélange of navy blue worsted wool, impeccable grooming, and "Allure" by Chanel Homme. Delish! The pecheur busily baited his hook, a woman walked by keeping a watchful eye on a freewheeling Jack Russell Terrier, and yet another Bateaux Mouches lumbered by, loaded with tourists happy to wave at romantic couples strolling the Seine. As dusk approached, we found ourselves at Place du Concorde, and we said our goodbyes in the metro as we took separate lines on our merry way. I think I had a certain glow - the kind one gets after a particularly good date - and I found myself smiling as I recalled my afternoon with Mick. Which is always a hazard when on public transportation, what was I thinking? My eyes naturally darted around the train as we rhythmically swayed to the motion through the mysterious tunnels underneath Paris, and I noticed no fewer than 5 men checking me out with obvious interest; for no man has a nose for pheromones like a Frenchman! I deliberately avoided direct eye contact, as the combination of this and a smile is obviously an invitation to unlawful carnal knowledge in froggie land. But I just couldn't suppress myself, the edges of my lips refused to head south, and I hoped the creepers would assume I was daft (the only other reason anyone smiles in Paris). Just as we approached my stop my phone blinged her little code for an incoming SMS - from my handsome Englishman. I joined the crowd of commuters busily texting, talking, and scrolling for Itunes and accessed my inbox. The message made me laugh out loud; tune in next week to find out if Mick a) quoted Hedey Lamar, ("that's HEDLEY!") b) spontaneously canceled his meeting, or c) sexted me instead of texted me
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