Your Friday Night French Rom-Com Part One: Mr. Screensaver

Divorce after a lifetime of marriage (I met my ex husband at the age of 19, and was married until 50), one finds oneself in a brave new world; a world of Internet dating sites, somewhat ambiguous gender roles, and a plethora of rules that boggle the mind. When one is a woman "of a certain age", the dating game seems a bit of a pain, however I must admit to enjoying the company of men. So I threw my hat in the ring, posted a profile, and in no time I had several options to choose from. One response in particular piqued my interest, his introduction was gentlemanly and he actually attached a photo of his face instead of his penis! (5 bonus points) He was staying near Bastille, and we arranged an afternoon rendezvous on the steps of the new opera house. Springtime in Paris is nothing less than magical. After months of gray skies and bitter cold, suddenly one morning one awakens to the obnoxious chatter of a magpie, blue skies, and double digits on the thermometer. There are masses of tulips everywhere, and gypsies stand at the exits of the metro selling bouquets of daffodils. It was just such a day as I arrived to meet my date - a fine spring afternoon, perfect for strolling around the most romantic city in the world with a handsome and elegant man! And handsome he was; with a shock of silver-grey hair that complimented perfectly his turquoise blue eyes, classic bone structure, tall and slender with broad shoulders, (just how I like 'em) and an engaging smile. "Hi, I'm Mick" he greeted me warmly with an extended hand. "Bonjour Mick" I introduced myself and touched my cheek to his - first the right, then the left. (It's a precise system) "Shall we take a walk along the river?" he offered, "Do you know the Canal St. Martin? I passed by it on the way to meet you, it's really charming!" I admitted I hadn't yet discovered this little inlet on the Seine dotted with houseboats, some having secured their mooring long before I was born. Mick took my hand in his, and we chatted easily as we meandered away from the hustle bustle of the Place du Bastille and toward the peaceful banks of the river. I learned he was anglaise, based in London, divorced with two young adult children, and he worked in shipping. In fact, his office was on a ship. No wonder he wanted to walk along the river! I found him easy to talk to, even if he was a proper Englishman - I am sure I made him blush a time or two, but he didn't seem to mind my directness. I shared my story of how I arrived to be in Paris, and he admired my courage. We walked and talked, and before we knew it we could see Notre Dame looming in the near distance. The Bateaux Mouches were ferrying tourists up and down the river, turning around laboriously near the great Gothic cathedral and allowing for plenty of photo opps. The sun was heading westward, my dogs were barking, and Mick declared it to be tea time. Serendipitously, we stumbled upon a boat converted into a tea and cake barge, and after regarding the possibilities on a menu (conveniently posted dockside), we crossed under a welcome arch festooned with fake ivy and plastic geraniums onto a deck furnished with white linen tablecloths and a several young Greek waiters. I couldn't have asked for much more; I was sitting across from a gorgeous and interesting man, in Paris, on the Seine, about to enjoy something fabulous involving chocolate and raspberries, on one of the three days a year when the weather is absolutely perfect! There was just one little problem; the thing is, I get seasick on a water bed. I am a total landlubber, the only thing I'm good for on a boat is chummin'! Granted, we weren't out to sea - the Seine has a current as seemingly gentle as a baby cradle, and the wake of the Bateaux Mouches barely kissed our barge - yet even this subtle motion was starting to get to me. I felt with dismay that familiar sensation in my stomach and head simultaneously, and began a frantic mental calculation of possible toilet location and how much time it would take to get there, vs how much time I had before the moment of truth, all the while trying to smile and concentrate on whatever the hell Mick was saying. I began breathing a little more deeply through my mouth, trying not to look at the movement of the horizon, instead fixing my gaze intently into Micks eyes. I am sure I looked rather like a cat who gets that funny open mouth posture when they smell something really funky (as I sat there doing my best not to puke). I am also reasonably sure that Mick didn't feel a thing in terms of motion, as we weren't exactly on the Deadliest Catch. I just hoped that I could get through tea without a dating faux pas! Join me next week for Your Friday French Rom-Com and find out if a) I lose my cookies on a first date, b) one of those cute Greek boys slips me his phone number, or c) we throw caution to the wind, and go skinny dipping in the Seine!