Your Friday night French Ro-Com Part 11: "Mr. Low-key"

To stroll the streets of Paris on a warm summer night, after a satisfying meal and a bottle of Bordeaux, hand in hand with a beautiful man is the ultimate parisian experience. It had been a fabulous birthday thus far; dining at an exclusive restaurant with a reputation for the best foie gras in Paris, being officially and blatantly dissed by our waiter, and exploring the various musical options offered in the streets during the annual Fete de le Musique. Both Low and I were enjoying the warm glow of a good wine buzz as we slowly made our way back toward the Place de Vosges (and his hotel). An all girl Grunge band caught our attention, somehow the vocals didn't sound as hard in french! The bass player was a tall, lanky lesbian sporting a head shaven totally bald save for a skullcap of hair moussed to stick out in every direction from the crown of her head. "Now that's something you don't see everyday!" I discreetly whispered in Low's ear. "Fabulous!" he answered, as was his habitud. We moved on to discover a Reggae band, and a sea of dredlocks that reminded me of wall to wall shag carpet fiber from the 70's. There was a familiar aroma in the air, at once pungent and sweet, and the audience here was mellow as they swayed to the rythym of the islands. Cannabis is highly frowned upon here, but for the Fete de le Musique all is forgiven - for this night and this night only! After groovin' to a classic Bob Marley tune we moved on, our hearts filled with nostalgia. We laughed as we swapped stories of smoking our first joint back in the day, and Low was nearly creamed by a bicyclist as we briefly stepped off the curb to avoid a group of students sitting crosslegged on the sidewalk passing a bottle. It was an accident of timing; the guy on the bike zigging to avoid a young family towing a toddler, Low zagging to avoid the hippies. "Oh my God!" I exclaimed, "are you all right?" The cyclist was yelling angrily something that sounded like "What do you think you are doing you idiot, are you trying to kill me?!" (in french, so I can only surmise), and I was laughing inappropriately and uncontrollably as I always do in moments of crisis. Luckily, the french don't hold on to their anger for long, they yell and blow their horns and move on. Now we were even, having both been dissed by a parisian that night! "Fabulous!" he smiled as I pointed this out, then "I feel like I'm in the middle of a Woody Allen movie, set in Paris!" "Am I your Louise Lasser?" I joked. "No, you're my Scarlett Johannsen" he purred, and gave me a sweet little kiss. (5 bonus points) He was impressed that I remembered Louise Lasser however, and we compared notes on "Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman" as we continued our journey through the '70's and the Marais. A German oompah band was competing for airspace with a french rapper with a bad amplifier and a Mr. Microphone, and we pondered the possibilities of a marraige between the opposing forces. Sort of a tuba beat box. Suddenly I realized we had arrived at the Place de Vosges, having arrived by a side street I hadn't used before. We strolled through the place, and I explained to Low that we were walking where jousting tournaments were held in medieval times, over 800 years ago! But tonight there were no sounds of horses hoofs pounding the soil as they charged their opponents, instead a choir of 20 or 30 men and women singing acapella. We were steps away from the Pavilion de le Reine, where he was staying for the weekend. We stopped to listen to the choir, and he put his arm around my waist, giving me a little squeeze. "Happy Birthday" he cooed, and kissed me tenderly. "So..." he smiled shyly, lowering his gaze. "So..." I repeated (hoping for birthday sex). "Would you like to stay with me tonight?" He was tentative, as if I might refuse. He had, after all, racked up quite a number of bonus points since I met him! He had been a gentleman and was adorable, coming to Paris from London twice just to take me out, which made me feel pretty special. I answered with a long, seductive kiss that left no need for words, and we strolled arm in arm through the beautiful hidden courtyard of his hotel and into the lobby. "Bonsoir, monsieur!" The smaller "boutique" hotels always require you to leave yor key at the desk, and a charming young parisienne greeted us, offering an antique looking key attached to a giant gold tassel. "Je vous en prie" she answered to our "Merci", then "Bonne Soirée!"

Your Friday night French Ro-Com Part 10: "Mr. Low-key"

My first birthday since moving to Paris was shaping up nicely. I had a rendez vous with a lovely man who planned to take me to dine at the french bistro equivalent of Studio 54 (if they decided to honor the reservation), I had someone fun to trawl the Fete de le Musique with, and it was a hot summer weekend. The weather here is something I still haven't acclimated to - cold and miserable the majority of the year, with a smattering of perfect days when Mother Nature takes pity on a soul. It was going to be a perfect evening for the citywide, night long street party, and I was looking forward to experiencing this mysterious restaurant Low had invited me to. He was staying at his preferred hotel at the Place de Vosges, and we met in the lobby. He was waiting for me ensconced in an oversized armchair, and he stood up to greet me with open arms. "Happy Birthday!" he smiled and hugged me. "Are you hungry?" I admitted that I was, and he said he hoped they wouldn't turn us away at l'Ami Louis. I hoped so too, more for his sake than for mine! I knew he would feel humiliated if they snubbed us. He had ordered a taxi, and we chatted about London, the fete, and how he managed to maneuver our dinner reservations as the driver wound through the streets, carefully avoiding the partying pedestrians that were beginning to spill off the sidewalks. We passed a four piece band that included a snare drum, a tuba, a trumpet, and a washboard making a racket as a small group of college students passed a bottle of cheap rum, laughing as one of them performed a jig. The driver turned into a quiet, deserted street and stopped the cab. It didn't appear as if anything was open, could he be mistaken? I saw nothing that indicated a restaurant, certainly not the obligatory bistro tables that occupy the narrow sidewalks here, nor any signage. Maybe it was one of those places where you knock three times and the doorman peers at you through a tiny opening, demanding a password! Low paid the driver, took my hand, and led us to the place. It was the Studio 54 moment of truth - I held my breath as we entered and approached the Maitre'd. Ignorant as to the protocol of acceptance, I hoped I had dressed appropriately. Fortunately Lady Luck was on our side, and with a sigh of relief on both our parts, we were seated. He was smiling as I took in our surroundings, which were suprisingly understated for a restaurant frequented by dignitaries such as the Clinton's. It was a small establishment, with two rows of tables lining the walls, which had been painted a matte black perhaps 50 years ago. The tables were covered by red and white checkered tablecloths, and were set with cutlery one would find in a down home diner. There were photographs on the wall of who I assumed was the owner, with various celebs and politicians, mostly European. It had a sort of old school mafia ambiance, and was famous for the foie gras and rotiserrie chicken. I ordered the former for starters, and Low chose the escargot. Now, I must admit, up until that night I had never tried escargot, nor had I ever desired to do so. But it was my birthday, and my blood was up! Low graciously offered me a taste, and I was a virgin no more. I was suprised at how much it reminded me of mussels, (which I quite like) and I was glad to check it off the list of things to do before I die. That said, one was enough, and I concentrated on the foie gras which was the best I have ever had! Warming up with a good bottle of wine, we amused ourselves by observing the waiters as they served up platter after platter of poulet accompanied by huge piles of shoestring potatoes, with the attitude that they would rather face a firing squad than look at another chicken. They were the quintessential clichés of the french waiter; condescending, arrogant, and sarcastic. We were in french heaven as we casually eavesdropped on the conversation of a big, fat, obviously rich old man who was in the process of seducing a young, blond, Italian social climber with huge ta ta's, collagen injected lips, and a deep tan. In fact, there seemed to be several tables occupied by men with the same goal in mind; to impress and seduce. All the waiters had a goal of their own, to make it through the night without slitting their wrists, and my goal? Birthday sex! Our waiter approached and provided what to this day is the most awesome moment in the history of dining out. "Dessert, madame?" he inquired. Just as I opened my mouth to say "Oui, le sorbet citron s'il vous plait" he dissed me by turning his back, nose in the air, looking across the room at nothing. My mouth was literally still open as I looked at Low in utter disbelief, and we started to laugh. Only in Paris, only in a restaurant that charges 22 euro for two itty bitty scoops of ice cream, and only from a waiter guaranteed 15% of a 300 euro dinner bill! Who could be angry? Ultimately he was obliged to take my order, thoughts of suicide dancing through his head. "That was fabulous" Low was laughing, and took my hand. "I can't believe it!" I exclaimed, "Can you imagine that happening in L.A.? They would never work in that town again!" We were still chuckling as our dessert arrived. The cool lemony concoction was the perfect finish to a delicious meal, and I was as content as a fat cat as we stepped out into the balmy night air and strolled arm in arm back toward Bastille. The mood on the street was festive, all of Paris it seemed was out and about; laughing, boozing, and kissing. Families strolled from concert to concert, fathers with young ones perched on their shoulders, bouncing gently to the rythym of the music. Groups of noisy teens flirted, the girls laughing just a little too loudly, the boys fueling the fire by offering alcohol and cigarettes. We stopped for a moment to listen to a french grunge band, somehow it didn't sound so grungey in française! There was a large crowd assembled around us; a girl with bright pink hair, a white dude with dredlocks and a nose ring, and an elderly french couple, all forgetting for an evening that smiling is strictly interdit in Paris! Over the grunge, we moved on and discovered an eclectic group of people drumming an ancient tribal beat, anyone with a bongo was welcome to join. It was peoplewatching at it's finest, and Low and I were taking full advantage of the opportunity. Always a gentleman, always discreet, and with the exception of a few affectionate pecks, Low gave me little indication of whether or not I was going to get that birthday sex I was talking about earlier. I couldn't think of a better way to end a perfect evening, but would Low a) once again send me home in a cab, b) take me to a Karaoke bar and sing "What's New, Pussycat?" or c) give it up? Join me next week for my big birthday suprise on Your Friday night French Ro-Com!

Your Friday night French Ro-Com Part 9: "Mr. Low-key"

"Do you have a reservation?" inquired the lovely Madame. It being a last minute decision to dine at this particular place, we were forced to admit that no, we did not. She glanced around the room with in a way that was not at all encouraging, having mastered perfectly the facial expression I like to call "the french furrow" before seating us at an open table right next to where we were standing. Happily demonstrating her knowledge of english, she inquired if we wanted an aperitif. Anticipating the bottle of wine Low was sure to order, I opted for a Badoit. "What a charming little place" Low smiled as we relaxed and perused the room. The small dining room had an elegant yet understated ambiance, a rustic country french feel. Large slate boards on the walls served as menus, with tonights fare written in chalk. An antique sideboard rested at one end of the room, supporting a large vase of fresh flowers. "You are going to love the food" I promised. Madame approached with our water and asked us what we would like for a starter. In France it is customary to have an entrée, followed by a main course (plat), then dessert (which can be cheese or preceded by cheese), followed by a teeny tiny cup of liquid nitrogen (coffee). An typical entrée is usually foie gras, smoked salmon, escargot, or something avocado. Low ordered foie gras with figs, I went for the avocado and tomato salade. Accompanied by a lovely Bordeaux recommended by Madame, we were in foodie heaven! But there was an elephant dining with us - Low was still vexed by the slap in the face he had received from his former partner. "I'm sorry I have been in a bad mood" he apologized with a sigh. He was looking deep into my eyes as was his way. I reached across and put my hand on top of his, and with a squeeze I hoped was reassuring I told him not to worry. I understood completely! But I wasn't too happy with the guy that killed the romance for the day. "Do you know what you are going to do?" I asked, as Low spread a shmere of goose liver on a piece of toast and offered it to me. "Here" he said, "try this. It's fabulous!" (It was.) "Yes, but right now I want to concentrate on you, the wine, and this incredible foie gras. Cheers!" He raised his glass and I met his toast, making a point to look at him in the eye (embracing the french superstition that lack of eye contact during a toast results in 10 years of bad sex). "I was thinking of coming back for the weekend around the 20th" he hinted, "would you like to have dinner?" "The 21st is the "Fete de le Musique!" I exclaimed, "All night long there are bands of every genre in the streets all over Paris, it is one of two nights a year that the metro runs all night without stopping, and parisians wander the streets with bottles of whiskey and wine! You see families, and groups of college kids brazenly smoking reefers, and dixieland jazz, hip hop, and grunge bands side by side on the same block. You would love it!" Low's face lit up with the prospect of peoplewatching, one of his favorite pastimes - and mine. "I have made it a tradition to kick off my birthday with the Fete de le Musique" I said. "It's your birthday that weekend?" he asked excitedly, "Then I am going to take you to dinner at l'Ami Louis! That is, if we can get reservations. It is impossible, and even when you have one, they may not honor it once you have arrived! I am going to try though. You will love it, it's fabulous!" Smiling, he raised his glass once again, and I basked in the glow of a promising birthday. "And you will love the fete" I said, "It's one of the few times you will see parisians display a sense of collective joy!" The figurative elephant had wandered away, and we laughed and drank, and shared death by chocolate for dessert. It was nice to spend time with someone who seemed to genuinely enjoy my company, without the pressure of "should I" or "shouldn't I". I knew we would get there in good time. Despite the issue with his business partner, it had been a good day. The matinée had been spectacular, dinner was ecstacy, and it was comfortable walking arm in arm under the stars after dinner. We found a taxi, and giving me a long, sweet kiss full of promise Low said goodnight. He had a scathing letter to write! Join me next week for the "Fete de le Musique", dinner at a very exclusive restaurant, and a hot summer night with Low on "Your Friday night French Ro-Com". A bientot!

Your Friday night French Ro-Com Part 8: "Mr. Low-key"

Searching for an answer to the age old question, "What am I going to wear?" I emptied half of my closet and had clothes strewn all over the bed. Mother Nature had been fickle all weekend, in a sunny mood one moment and threatening to cry tears of rain in the next. I wonder if men go through the same agonizing process before a date? I decided on a wild pair of Cavalli pants and 4 inch heels, praying for enough rain to nix a long walk around town after the matinée. I was excited to see the show, and excited to see "Low"! I was hoping to keep my emotions at bay however during the performance. I always get all weepy at the theatre when the lights dim, the curtain rises, and the overture begins to play - who knows why? Plus, the score we would be hearing is very moving and always makes me cry (in a good way). I hate crying in front of anyone, I just hoped I wouldn't make any weird snuffling noises in front of Low! This was only our second "official" date after all. I made sure to put a mini pack of mouchoirs in my purse and caught the 13:05 to Paris. "Wow, fabulous pants!" Low praised my fashion choices appreciatively. "You look great." He welcomed me with a light kiss on the lips and offered his arm. "Shall we go?" We strolled arm in arm past Galeries Lafayette, pausing to admire the unique window displays of this famous department store. The streets were completely deserted, all the shops in the neighborhood being closed on Sundays and its residents indoors having dejeuner (lunch) with family. On Monday morning the streets and sidewalks would be teeming with activity, but for now we had the city to ourselves as we zigzagged our way toward the theatre Mogador, catching up on the weeks activities. "I had a good meeting with our backer" Low told me, "and we begin casting next week!" His London project was taking shape and he was obviously excited. "Excuse me" Low went to will call and picked up our tickets. "Would you like a program?" (5 bonus points) Souvenir in hand, we made our way to our seats. "Here, you should sit on the aisle" he offered generously. I knew the cast would enter through the aisles of the theatre so I awarded Low another 5 points for his thoughtfulness. I was already feeling little goosebumps of anticipation, not unlike the feelings I knew the actors were experiencing as they do before every performance. We settled in and looked around the theatre as the audience tricked in and took their seats. Low was perusing the program, paying special attention to the page of credits devoted to the production; director, choreographer, etc. "Huh" he grunted. "Did you find your name?" I asked naively, half joking. "No, it's been removed" he answered quietly. My eyebrows shot upward off my head. "So, you had something to do with this show?" It was beginning to dawn on me that Mr. Low-key was Mr. Big Time. "I produced it with my partner" he confessed. "And for some reason, he has taken my name off the credits". He was obviously pissed off. Just then the lights dimmed and the show began. I choked up as usual, tears welling in my eyes. I turned my head away from Low hoping he wouldn't notice, under the pretext of watching the cast move down the aisle toward the stage. The music was strong and beautiful, it was a brilliantly conceived entrance to an impressive production. And my date was one of the geniuses who had made all it happen years before! I was doubly impressed by how modest he was, all things considered. I remembered how he said "I play in the theatre a little, it's not really work" the first night I met him. He did more than play, I call tell you that! Soon it was intermission, and as we moved toward the lobby he offered me a drink. Always the gentleman he was going through the motions, but I could see he was very unhappy. "Are you enjoying the show?" he wanted to know. "It's an incredible production" I gushed, "the staging is nothing less than brilliant!" It was true - there hadn't been anything quite like it before or since. Low agreed. "I'm glad you're enjoying it" he smiled, but I could tell he was putting on a brave face. He had more important things on his mind- like the scathing letter he would send to his former partner. "Are you okay?" I asked sympathetically. I was feeling his pain. He nodded and offered a weak smile. "Let's go back in" he said as he took my arm and guided us back to our seats. I could hear the gears spinning in his head over the music as he mentally prepared to confront the offending party. We held hands during the second act, and I tried cheering him up with a charming smile now and then, but I could sense he wanted nothing more than to get the hell out of there and put his blackberry to work. Who could blame him? The show was incredible though, and ended with a standing ovation. "You should be very proud" I told Low, "This was really a stroke of genius!" His vexation aside for a moment, he deservedly basked in the glow of the applause of an appreciative audience, this was his baby! We exited the theatre, and as we strolled along enjoying the fresh air he told me the backstory of how this production came to be. "Are you hungry?" he asked, "let's find a fabulous place and have a really good bottle of wine." "I know just the place" I said, "I just have to figure out how to get there from here!" I had a charming, quiet little bistro in mind, and I knew the food would cheer him up. Join us for dinner next friday and find out if a) the cuisine at Le Petit Pontoise makes everything all better, b) Low gets smashed and drunk dials his partner, or c) the kitchen catches on fire and we are forced to evacuate the restaurant!

Your Friday night French Ro-Com Part 7: "Mr. Low-key"

The week passed quickly but without a peep from "Low", e-mail or otherwise. I wasn't too concerned, it was a busy week for me and my mind was occupied elsewhere. Yet I couldn't help hoping he would return for the weekend as planned, he was such fun to be with! In my quiet moments late at night in bed, I pictured his boyish smile and beautiful blue eyes. I wondered exactly what the project was he was working on so diligently in London - being the picture of discretion he wasn't offering any details - and I wasn't pushing. As long as it was legal, I really didn't care! By thursday however, I thought I would have heard from him. Was this a case of "he just isn't that into me"? Having been married all of my adult life, I was still navigating the treacherous waters of dating and trying to figure out how to use my compass. I was on the metro saturday morning when my phone rang. I am always amazed how parisians can carry on long phone conversations in the trains. Between the noise of the wheels as they scream down the tracks, the heavy metal doors slamming open and closed at each stop, and the gypsies torturing you with their violins accompanied by a pre-recorded rythym section, I don't know how they can hear a thing! I certainly can't, and this time was no exception. I caught a few words; "Hi", "sorry-busy week", something about tickets, and "Paris". Was he in Paris? It wasn't clear if he was able to get tickets to the show he had invited me to or not, or if he was even coming into town. "I'm sorry cherie, I can't hear you. I'm in the train! Are you in Paris?" Just then the call was dropped. Merde! The train pulled up to the next stop and I got off. I knew he would call back and it would be easier to hear on the platform as there were few people around. Sure enough, he redialed and I got the scoop - he wanted to know if I was still interested in seeing a matinée on sunday. He was still in London and would take the "Chunnel" first thing in the morning if I was. "After the show, maybe we could find someplace fabulous to eat and share a good bottle of wine?" he offered. "That sounds nice" I agreed, and we hammered out the details of our rendez vous. "See you tomorrow!" we said simultaneously, and with a chuckle we rang off. I was a happy camper as I boarded the next train and continued toward my destination. Low was as good as his word and making an effort to come back to Paris to take me out! I had always wanted to see the show he was taking me to, it was a ground breaking production that had earned Tony awards, praised by critics and audiences alike. And I was glad to be going with him. But there was quite a surprise in store for me the next day, and you could have knocked me over with a feather! Join me next friday for a little theatre and a big revelation!

Your Friday night French Ro-Com Part 5: "Mr. Low-key"

What could be more romantic than sitting on the steps of the Palais Garnier alongside teenagers, tourists, and pigeons (the latter trawling for snacks), on a beautiful sunday afternoon engaged in blatant PDA ? It's an experience - uniquely french - that everyone should have at least once a lifetime. I was vaguely aware of a middle aged couple from America smiling at us, he raising his camera to capture the quintessential parisian moment, and we gave him the money shot! Smiling into each others eyes, Low pulled me into a warm embrace, and I nestled into his shoulder. A toddler chased a trio of pigeons away from a half eaten cookie, and he knelt down and sampled it for himself before his mother (who was horrified) could head him off at the pass. We laughed as he cried during the vigorous decontamination of his tongue....life was good. "Are you hungry?" inquired my date. "I'm famished!" I exclaimed, "I think I ran out of gas about a half hour ago". "What do you feel like having for dinner?" Low asked, "Since you live here, I'll let you choose. Do you have a favorite restaurant?" (a whopping 10 bonus points!) "Oooh, I know just the place, Chéz Janou!" I suggested, "it's a bit of a zoo, in the sense that it is always very busy, but that's because the food is so good. But it's very unpretentious, and the wait staff is friendly. The moules gratinée is to die!" "Fabulous" said Low, "Where is it? Should we get a cab?" "We can take the metro right here, line 8 will take us to Bastille, et voila!" I offered. I am so accustomed to using public transportation, it's so easy (and above all cheap), I don't even give it a second thought. "No, I don't feel like taking the metro, we'll catch a taxi" he insisted. I didn't argue, and we walked hand in hand toward the nearest taxi stand to queue up and hope a few extra drivers were on duty - Sunday being one of those days it is next to impossible to find a cab. But when you have a hot date like Low, it's a pleasure to wait! Chéz Janou was crowded as usual when we arrived. (Note to self: enter their phone number into cell for reservations on the fly.) We had only 10 minutes to wait, and Low snagged the one remaining barstool and offered it up (5 points). Chéz Janou has inarguabley the best olives in the universe, and we munched contentedly on this perfect appetizer before being shown to our table. We shared the moules, a delicious spinach salad with goat cheese and grapefruit, (salade epinard avec pamplemousse et chévre), and for dessert a generous serving of their famous house mousse au chocolat. OMG! The waiter brings a giant bowl of chocolate heaven - big enough to swim in - offers you a sizeable platter and a huge spoon with which to take as much as you desire.....stick a fork in me - I'm done! Joking, I asked the waiter to just leave the bowl, and he did! Low laughed as the waiter walked away, playing along with my farce. "Are you going to eat all of that?" he grinned. "No, you're going to help" I said, and with a straight face, dished him up a teeny tiny portion. "Thanks, it's so good of you to share!" He took the plate I offered, and with his pinky scooped the mousse off the plate and into his mouth. "Hmmmm, delicious! Waiter, check please!" We laughed and I dove into the bowl, serving a generous portion for us to share as we chatted and took in the chaos that is Chéz Janou. It had been a great day, and I was looking forward to going to the theatre with him the next weekend. But the way he was looking into my eyes, I knew there was a decision looming before us - and it was all mine. Low was staying in a hotel at Place du Vosges, just two blocks away. I was either going to get on the metro after dinner, or not. Did I want to stay? Oh yes! I felt comfortable with Low, he was easy to talk to and funny - and adorable. But most of all, a gentleman. I faced the cunundrum every woman has; to play by the "rules" and wait (for date number six? marraige? a ring on it?) or succumb to the pleasures of the flesh and "cowgirl up"! Not helping matters was the mélange of boyish charm, Bordeaux, and a huge bowl of chocolate mousse. Add the fact that I am not looking for a husband, and you have devils brew! Oh la la. I knew deep down Low would have more respect for me if we waited, plus a little anticipation goes a long way......on the other hand I didn't want to leave him, I wanted to lie in his arms all night. We strolled slowly toward our final destination, not wanting the night to end. As we neared the moment when we must decide whether to zig toward Place du Vosges or zag toward the metro, my heart was pounding furiously. Did I a.) demurely kiss Low goodnight and get on the metro, b.) go with him to his hotel and ride him like the wild stallion he is, OR c.) this is way TMI - Too Much Information Find out next week on your Friday night French Ro-Com, right here at Bonbon de Paris!

Your Friday night French Ro-Com Part 4: "Mr. Low-key"

I awoke to a beautiful cloudless summer morning, and as I gazed out the window at the gold dome of Les Invalides gleaming in the sunlight I was still pondering what to wear on my first "official" date with Low. I knew he had a penchant for walking, so the most comfortable shoes possible were in order. Trouble is, the most comfortable shoes aren't often the cutest, in fact when one can accomplish being extremely comfortable and ultra chic at the same time it is a coup d'éclat - right girls? Plus, in Paris anything can happen weather wise. It can be bright and sunny one moment and before you know it, gale force winds are blowing rainclouds your way! Tropical style thunderstorms are not at all unusual in summer, so I had to be prepared for anything while remaining stylish and comfortable. Oh la la! I decided to phone him to see what he had in mind for the day before making my decision. "Good morning cherie, did you sleep well?" Low sounded cheerful and ready to take on the day. "Do you still want to meet for lunch?" he queried, "and maybe a little walk around town?" (I knew it! The scales were tipping toward jeans and tennies). "I'd like that" I purred, "where shall we meet?" As it happened he was staying near Bastille, not far from where we had our chance encounter the night before. "There is a great little café called "Les Pharohes" at the Place de Bastille" he suggested, "they have the best jambon et frommage sandwiches, my favorite! I love a cup of coffee with ham and cheese on a baguette, it's fabulous!" I happen to agree, (if you switch the coffee for a cola) so we firmed up our plans and rang off. Our conversation did little to resolve my wardrobe crisis however, but first things first - time for a shower and a "brazilian"! The Place de Bastille is quite large, with several sorties in the metro to choose from. The circumference around the Rond Point can take 10 minutes or more to traverse on foot, and I hoped the "meeney-miney-moe" method was on my side as I made my choice. I was already a little late. As luck would have it, "moe" came through and I found the café easily, and as I approached I could see by the smile on Low's face my tardiness was still within the realm of the adorable. He stood to greet me (5 bonus points) and we kissed cheek to cheek, the typical french hello. He was savvy, he had arrived early enough to choose the best table complete with an excellent view, just enough shade, as well as potted plants nearby acting as a buffer from the crowded sidewalk. The lunch crowd was just beginning to arrive as we ordered our sandwiches, and we chatted easily as we watched the "Bou-bo" work the pavement. Noon on Sunday at Bastille is a sight to behold. Young, muscular boys in skin tight tees and a 3 day beard swagger confidently like cocks in a hen house. Beautiful, tanned women in casual chic and the right sunglasses run their fingers through perfectly tousled hair as they smoke a cigarette and command complete attention. Forget poodles - Jack Russell terriers are the dog du jour! You can literally smell the money in the air as the scene plays out before your eyes. Fortified by lunch and a healthy dose of people watching we began a leisurely stroll through the streets of the Marais. One of the only neighborhoods whose shopkeepers open on Sunday, we explored a few galleries and boutiques, and shared a delicious piece of baklava from one of many traditional Jewish delicatessens. "I have to go to London tomorrow" Low announced, quite out of the blue. "I'm working on a project there." He explained he was directing a stage production, but true to his nature was very "low key" about it, and didn't offer too many details. "Do you like musicals?" he asked. Is a bear Catholic? Does the Pope... (well you know). "Of course! I love musicals!" "Would you like to go to the theatre next sunday?" he offered, "I thought I would come back to Paris for the weekend and take you to a matinée." It was a show I had always wanted to see, and I didn't hesitate to accept his invitation. Smiling, he gave me a little kiss and we continued our walk through Paris hand in hand, ending up at the Opera Garnier somehow. Low bought two bottles of cold water from an (unlicensed) street vendor and we sat on the steps of the opera house with the tourists and the teenagers to rest our feet and watch the world go by, in true french style! We kissed on the steps as huge double decker tour buses ambled by and amateur photographers on vacation captured our PDA for posterity. I felt like a real parisienne that day, being kissed openly by one's lover in Paris is a rite of passage! But our date wasn't over yet.....join me next week for your Friday night French Ro-Com and see what happened next!