l'amour

Disclaimer: all names were changed to protect the guilty. Dating after divorce takes a bit of getting used to, especially when there are decades between the first time around and the second. The rules have changed, the methodology opening a virtual world of possibilities, and if one is to adjust to this "Brave New World" one must be open to experiencing what's happening now. Enter dating websites. Unsure of the the idea at first, I explored the possibility with several single (female) friends. They assured me it was the way things are done in the 21st century, so upon my arrival in Paris I threw my hat in the ring. I was amazed, within 24 hours of posting my profile I had over a dozen responses! As I sifted through the messages, I found I could organize them into three categories: "Cubs", "Married Men", and "Dick Pictures". I shall address the first category first using the most current vocabulary available; "Cubs". Giovanni was 28, from Rome, and had sparkling dark eyes and a mischievious smile. We met for a drink in a typical Parisian café on a drizzly grey afternoon. He had adorable droplets of rain on his cheeks and eyelashes as he arrived on his scooter. Vested waiters scurried about serving tiny cups of liquid nitrogen to Parisians eager for an afternoon pick me up, and we ordered ours with a "tarte aux pommes". We sat smiling at each other tentatively as we searched each others eyes for answers to questions yet unasked, to motives possibly hidden. We had the usual preliminary conversation, "Where are you from?", "What brings you to Paris?", and "What do you do?" (Brilliant, I know, but it all has to begin somewhere.) He said he worked for an import/export olive oil company based in Rome. I didn't believe him for a second, but he was certainly cute as we engaged in the french tradition of flirting over drinks. He was scrupulously unshaven with the cliché dimpled cheeks and rumpled hair of an Abercrombie model, and ambiguously meterosexual. Did I mention he had a scooter? I was in cougar heaven as we motored through rush hour traffic toward his favorite Italian bistro. He pointed out various landmarks as we passed by, the Tour St. Jacques, Hotel de Ville, and Notre Dame. Of course I knew them all, but it mattered not, I smiled and drank it all in - the fresh heady scent of a city washed by rain, the sight of Notre Dame looming before us, the adrenaline rush of danger as we manuvered through traffic like a snake weaves it way through the jungle. Giovanni made a sharp right turn between two large automobiles and accelerated up a narrow, deserted alleyway. I shut my eyes when I heard the clarion call of an angry motorist sounding his horn, but we were safely up the street in no time, and I laughed in relief as he found a place to park. I have found when I travel, the most interesting places are found off the beaten path. This is especially true in Paris, one must never forget to look through doorways and up alleyways, the most texture is to be found underneath the slick veneer of tourist attractions and remodeled 19th century buildings! This cozy little restaurant was so far off the beaten path I have yet to find it again, or perhaps it was the magic of the moment, like one of those mysterious places in a P.L. Travers novel, that exists in a parallel universe one moves through as needed. He held my hand as we walked toward the door, and a very short, very plump, and very loud woman in an apron opened it to greet us. Giovanni respectfully kissed her cheeks and she led us to a small table, papered with disposable red and white checks and fitted with wine glasses. Gio was a seasoned Roman warrior going in for the kill. The weapon of choice for the evening: Chianti and pasta. Really, really good pasta. Like your Italian friends mamas pasta. A formidable choice of offense, (little did he know I was a seasoned veteran of this tactic.) We had fun flirting as we twirled pasta and drank too much wine, but he miscalculated when he ordered the giant dessert. It was creamy and light and chocolatey, and as we shared it we both entered the point of no return - or what I like to call "Thanksgiving full". Madame had to force us verbally to leave as we sat like Jabba the Hut at our table, absorbed in a state of semi-conscious-post-Italian-comfort-food-bliss. There is only one remedy, we took an after dinner stroll arm in arm through the labryinth of streets that is Paris, stopping to kiss from time to time. He was stealth, persistant yet patient. I was doing my best Sophia Loren - strong, flirtatious, confident, sensual. (Or so I hoped.) I had shaved my legs, I had protection in my purse, and an Italian Stallion in my arms! Soon we found ourselves by the river. The clouds had cleared enough for the moon to shine her reflective light upon the water, the current strong enough to create the beautiful light show unique to Paris..... Unfortunately, darling Gio (who had earlier attempted to ply me with alcohol and ended up drinking most of it himself) proved yet again the perils of being a cougar. One must know one's limits, myself included. He sat down suddenly with a plunk, right on the sidewalk, nearly taking me down with him! He looked up at me with a stupid grin-then a frown, he was going to be sick. I said my goodnights and turned, and doing my best Sophia Loren, (or so I hoped) walked confidently toward the metro St. Michel and headed home, leaving my little cub to do what he had to and to ponder the moral of the story. Being this: Dating Rule #1: Don't drink and date!