Sunday, July 5, 2009

Sunday Morning - on Men

I love the Metro Ads...Sometimes they seem to know what's on my mind

One day I asked Pierre why he was always trying to touch me...all the time, holding my hand and putting his hands all over me. Being around him, for me was always a constant French-American, "keep your hands off me struggle." His reply was simply, "Because you are a woman...and I am a man." He always makes my complex questions seem so simple.

In the end, Pierre is not the "man" for me. He's in Germany right now with one of his girlfriends, although he was polite enough to tell me he was leaving for a business trip. Maybe he did not realize that I know most business trips are not specifically over a weekend? I deleted him from my cell phone and blackberry.

Yesterday, as I was walking back to my apartment in the suburbs of Levellois, a man came out of a hair salon and called across the street to me. I looked and smiled, just because he was a nice looking dark skinned man, saying something to me in French. Whatever it was, I was not interested, so I continued walking. I could hear him still talking, even louder in French, so I turned to look one more time...he was now standing in the middle of the street, his French sounded nice and fluent, but I did not understand. Since he was risking his life to stand in the middle of the road to get my attention, I turned around, lifted a part of my curly hair in my right hand and pointed to myself, wondering if he was talking about my hair? He replied again in French. He was so cute, I realized that I was just standing there looking at him, but not really hearing anything. He waited for my reply. I looked at his eyes and he looked at mine as he smiled.

I don't know exactly when I walked towards him, but found myself standing closer to him in the middle of the street, I opened my mouth to say something, but what was I suppose to say? How was I suppose to respond in French to sentences I did not understand in the first place? So I said, "Uh, oh, je comprends un peu français..." He replied, "Oh, you speak English?"
I said, "Oui." He asked, "Where you live?" "J'habite à Levallois-Perret, on rue Louis Michel", I answered...wondering why I was having this conversation. Then I asked, "Est-ce votre salon? Pouvez-vous (and I motioned braiding my hair) mes cheveux?" He smiled a nice smile...and replied, "Oh, no this is not my salon. I am visit my friend. I have a restaurant around the corner. What do you want for your hair? Come, Come inside, here is my friend. He will make your hair."

I walked into the salon, and met his friend who looked at me and my hair as if I were a green martian just stepping out of my spaceship and entering his doors. I stood there as he examined me with his eyes and immediately I knew he did not know how to do anything with my hair. I didn't blame him, because, right now, I don't even know what to do with my hair...(except delete a man, because of my hair)

The cute man who called me into the shop, just stood there admiring me with a big smile on his face that never faded. I knew then how a puppy must feel when a child brings it into the home and asks, " Can we keep it?" The salon owner said something in French and began to quickly flip through pages of the Levallois Village directory. I told the dark skinned man, I have that directory in my apartment. He said, "Oh, here in Levallois there are no black people to live here. So there is no salon for the African hair.", then the salon owner said, "Non!, non!" as he gave him the book and pointed to a local salon. I asked, "pouvez-vous écrire..." He said,"Oh, yes, I write it for you."

We continued a conversation, my broken French and his replies in English. It seemed kind of odd, but he understood my French and I understood his felt like a dance, and I liked it. Sometimes he would reply in simple French and sometimes he would correct my French and reply in English. I always speak only in French after saying, "Je doit pratique parler en français." (I must practice speaking in French.)

His name is Jean-Martian, he asked me to give him my phone number and come to visit his restaurant. I asked for his phone number instead and he quickly wrote his name, phone number, name and address of his restaurant and directions on how to find it in English. His English writing was perfect. I like a man who can write...correctly. As he handed the paper to me, he said he was sorry that he did not have his business cards with him, but if it is my wish, he would be my French Instructor.
I wish.

This morning, I spoke briefly to another man I know. He's the one I really, really adore, but he doesn't seem to know it...or does he? I've always been confused about him and I wonder if it's because we are from different countries? For now, he'll remain a "Secret Crush"...hmmm, but is it really a secret if I blog about it? I wish that he could read my mind and I told him that I wish he would try...he replied, "Ok." Sometimes I think he already does.
I wish.

This Sunday morning, my mind is on Men, and wishful thinking.

I love what I see in the Metro...sometimes I can NOT always write what's on my mind! (but be in those arms?!)

Tonight, I will meet a few friends at Patricia's Paris Soiree.

The guest will be the erotic novelist Dale Gershwin, who will read from her book "Our Lady", explore the difference between "porn" and "erotica", and lead a lively discussion about the fact that the most important sex organ is the brain!

What a great way to end the Independence Day Weekend!

1 comment:

  1. I knew Pierre was Not the man for you.

    I think your 4th celebration was way more exciting than mine. It has been raining here for almost a week. Great for the skin, but not so much for barbecues and fireworks. Rich and I drove out to Calhan to see sprint car races, and it got rained out. Sad face. We really wanted to see the races. But, we had a great time just driving out there.