"Stand right, walk left" is the rule of thumb on the escalators and moving walkways of Paris. Especially in a busy train station where people are frantically rushing to a rendezvous, or late for work. Fail to comply, and all bets are off! Of course les française will say "Pardon", but don't misinterpret the meaning. They are really saying, "Get the hell out of my way, you moron!" So when a young creeper blocked the fast lane on a trotteur to line 4 (as he tried to pick me up), you can imagine the vexation that ensued. If I'd had a rear view mirror, I would have seen a hundred faces fixed with what I like to call "the french furrow" - one giant collective uni-brow knit together in a frown. (Botox is definitely not the rage here.) Professing his love for me, he played his hand - a pair of deuces. "Piss off!" I said indelicately. I had already told him "No" with a capital N-O, and removed his hands from my body. Just then I saw an opening, and I maneuvered through it like a seasoned driver on the 405 at rush hour. Managing to stay one small step ahead of a tsunami of commuters, I never looked back. I assume Monsieur became lost in a sea of flotsam as the trotteur spat us out into an open hallway, where hundreds of people crisscrossed in an out of two separate tunnels to metro lines 4 and 12. This is no place for the timid, if you don't hold your ground and push your way through, you will be washed away like a grain of sand! Through the tunnel we snaked, first left, then right. A Rastafarian carved out a space in the corner at the left turn and sang reggae mon, his guitar plugged into the World's Cheapest Amplifier. I swear, you go upstairs just to go downstairs in the metro - it's like the infamous Winchester House! A young Gypsy woman sat smack dab on the steps halfway up, her eyes cast downward in false humility, her palm extended upward. Parisians have seen it all and the crowd pushed past, ignoring her. Finally I reached the quai, and jockeyed for position. During rush hour there would be no seats, and when you throw a perturbation into the mix it's difficult to even squeeze yourself onto the train. I glanced at the clock, I was right on schedule. "Bling" went my phone, signaling an incoming SMS. "The sheriff's a comin'!" (For those of you who know the movie "Blazing Saddles", you know what's next.) Before I could reply the train arrived, and I assessed the situation - sometimes it's best to wait it out if the cars are too crowded. Luck be a lady, the train arrived half full - I even secured a seat! Opening the phone, I composed my reply, "Hey, the sheriff is a ni-BONG!" I hit "send". I was a happy camper, how often do you meet a person who can quote your favorite movie? And he was tall, and he was handsome, and he was interesting. "Winning!" People stepped on and off the car as the train snaked it's way through Paris, stopping at St. Michel in the lively Quatier Latin, and heading toward Chatelet. There is a bistro I adore in Chatelet, and I wanted to share it with Mick. The train stopped at Cité, and a huge group of happy Italians boarded noisily - all talking at once. I had the sense they were one big family of sisters and cousins, nieces and nephews, grandchildren and married couples, all presided over by a formidable matriarch. Possessing a voice louder than all 15 of them put together, she commanded attention and respect as she herded her clan through the maze of Paris. Her ginormous breasts jiggled like Jello as she laughed heartily at something her grandson said, a cute teenager with a dazzling smile and a smart mouth. Her husband stood quietly in the background, content to observe his happy family together on vacation. He had willingly relinquished control to Mama decades ago, life being easier that way. The train screeched to a stop and I waded past Team Italia, offering a polite "Pardon". I located the proper sortie, (essential at a station as large as Chatelet) and ascended into the fresh air. Our designated location of rendezvous was the fountain at Place du Chatelet, and I spotted Mick standing beside one of the Sphinx, scanning the crowd for his date. I hung back for just a moment, drinking in this cool glass of water. There is something so sexy about a well groomed man, right girls? He brightened as I approached and moved toward me, taking me in his arms and kissing me tenderly on the lips. Damn he smelled good! Join me next week to find out if a) I swoon and fall backwards into the fountain, b) he smells so good I eat him for dinner, or c) his boss calls an emergency meeting before we get to the restaurant on Your Friday French Rom-Com!
