French friends? or...

Today’s topics: pick up lines accompanied with a casual Louvre visit and a wise Aunt’s advice, perhaps not in that order and perhaps not that cut and dry. All of us study-abroaders really want local friends. To truly live in your place (Paris for me) it would mean to have some kind of network in the city. In the past I have been put in situations in which everyone is searching for a friend in the place that they are in, therefore it’s simple. College, they throw you into a small room with a stranger; track, they throw you up cement hills with crazy coaches yelling—everyone needs the solstice of the others around. Here, the Parisians appear to be in their particular groove. Without me, they will go on in that chic groove. Kate G. told me that you lose a part of personality when you arrive abroad, because broken phrases transfer into broken personality. She is spot on. However, Aunt Linda says that it’s your energy and broken phrases are not always equivalent to a void in personality. So…game plan is to lose the insecurity energy pulsing through me, I’ll let you know how that goes. The convo with Aunt Linda was abruptly stopped by my rendezvous with Annie and Sarah at the Louvre. On Friday nights after 6pm people under 26 get into the Louvre for free. It was quite empty. It’s amazing how free you feel when you can waltz into rooms full of history, grandeur and art. While the Louvre is incredible, some might not think it is proper Friday night material, which is why it was followed up by rue de Princess, a popular street of pubs. As I waited, alone for a friend, I realized the comforts of home were MIA; no familiar faces, no ability to pop on the phone with Ali to have her keep me company, just the rue et moi et beaucoup de garcons. Up to this point, the encounters with unknown men in Paris had been interesting, but this night added an entertaining new chapter. Before, there were a few “tu es tres belle”s and some “mademoiselle…”s, oh there was also the guy who came up and asked me if I had heard of some band, after I responded with a no, he was like well you should check in out myspace and come to a concert. At the chance of maybe having a French friend I was somewhat interested and asked for the band name again, that’s when I led him to the place he wanted; he answered and told me that if I forgot the band name he could give me his number and I could give him a call. Uh huh. I told him I would remember. I think it’s Gachettes something… Anyway, that leads me back to last night, back on the street, alone in front of a few pubs. An older Italian man approached, “Ca va?” “Oui, ca va,” after introductions he told me to come with him for a drink. When I told him I was waiting for a friend, he goes, “Well, you have a mobile phone, yes? So, you call your friend and tell your friend you are having a drink with me.” No thanks. After that episode my friend Trevor arrived and we entered the pub, The Little Temple, a packed Irish-style pub. The music definitely gave it a fun character, swinging strangely from Jay-Z and Kanye to Motown and then a little Irish jig music. After chatting it up with Trevor for a while, the first move was made by a guy in the bar—a paper plate was thrown in my direction. Minutes later a new paper plate was accompanied by a French man who said he had been sent over by his friends and that it was imperative that he get an answer to a certain question, that question being, “what is your father’s name?” After receiving his answer he returned to his table chuckling. When I returned to my conversation with Trevor, not much was said before I got my big shock. A pinch of my toosh—the culprit a French guy at the paper-plate-throwing table. Now, this table was not super close, one must know that this was a reach and then pinch. When I approached he assured me it was an accident. Oh Paris, paper-plates and ass grabbing, no need to go to the Louvre, I’ve found the charm I’ve been looking for.