I must admit, after my marraige of 30 years ended and I moved to Paris I wasn't at all interested in cooking. Living within the framework of traditional roles, it had been my responsibility to get dinner on the table each night - that combined with the simple truth that it isn't very interesting to cook for oneself led me to dine out regularly my first two years in the city. It was at one of these early (by french standards) dinners that I met Mr. "Low-key". It had been a beautiful sunny afternoon, and I found myself in the Marais, at the Place de le Bastille. There are any number of cafés surrounding the Rond Point, and it's a great pleasure to sit on a terrace to watch the show while enjoying a plat of typical french cuisine. A beautiful monument to the French Revolution is center stage, the gilded sculpture perched atop a giant column glowing in the sun. Traffic circles frenetically, weaving around each other as they aim for one of 7 exits on the "etoile". Crowds of tourists wander cluelessly searching for the Place du Vosges, while ultra trendy, affluent bohemians ("Les Beaubo") stroll with purpose - they are there to be seen! It's a noisy, smelly, fabulously french place to be. I carefully selected the best location possible (in the french tradition of the game); on the terrace, sun to the back, with just enough shade to make it comfortable, with a view of the action and no obvious smokers nearby. Famished, I ordered steak and frites and sipped on a coke as I marveled at a daring scooter boy escape almost certain death by city bus. The gentleman sitting next to me witnessed the same daredevil maneuver, and we both gasped in unison. "I can't believe he just did that!" I exclaimed, laughing. "I love it" he smiled, "Where are you from?" "I'm from California originally, but I live here now." "FABULOUS!" he cried, "I am in Europe for about 6 months. I've just been in Italy for awhile trying to learn Italian." He explained he was from California, dividing his time between L.A. and New York City. He was a pleasant conversationalist so I invited him to join me at my little bistro table. He was intriguing, he downplayed his work saying he "played in the theatre a little-it's not really work". Possesed with insatiable curiosity he preferred to ask the questions, deflecting attention from himself. We went deep, it was the eve of an historic presidential election. He was an Obama man, and I was still clinging to Hillary - even though it was obviously over for her. As we were debating the finer points of the Obama campaign a beautiful olive-skinned young french girl on a vélo, (not to be outdone by the daring scooter boy) sporting the lowest of low-cut jeans and two inches of coin slot executed a triple serpentine voiture bypass with an opposite flow poulet fry. All thoughts of politics disappeared as the most daring feat of stunt-biking took place right before our eyes! I think we were both a little turned on. Beautiful, totally fearless, with casually tousseled hair and cleavage 360°, she took on 2 Mercedes taxi's, a city bus, three motorcycles and a Renault. On a bicycle, with no helmet! "Low" and I locked eyes. "THIS is why I love Paris" I said with stars in my eyes. He gently took my hand. "Would you like to go for a walk?" Being the spontaneous woman that I am, naturally I agreed. We headed arm in arm toward the Seine for nowhere in particular, exploring Paris off the beaten path. Not far from the hustle and bustle were quiet residential streets, peppered with tiny bistros, shops full of antique books for collectors, and boutiques whose window displays promised one of a kind fashions (closed, of course!) We walked together easily and chatted about everything-and nothing. Before I knew it we had made our way to Notre Dame, the sun was setting, and Low had another invitation. He turned me to face him, looked deep into my eyes and popped the question. Did he invite me to: a) Go back to his hotel b) Go to the theatre to see a musical or c) share a bottle of really good wine? Find out next week on your "Friday night French Ro-Com"! (All stories based on true events. Names have been changed to protect the guilty.)
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