Every American girl is raised to believe that Paris is the most romantic city on Earth, and that if only she can make her way there, she is practically guaranteed a romantic interlude whose memory can then sustain her through the rest of her drab, workaday life. Being an American girl, I shared this belief. This is the story of my French romance.
When I was 18 years old, my father took me and my younger sister, Tanya, bike touring in Europe. He said it was our graduation gift, but really it was just an excuse for him to go back to Europe with his bike. It wasn't even an all-expense-paid trip -- the gift we got was just round-trip airfare. I'm not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, though, so I just made sure my bike was in good condition, and started saving money for expenses.
We spent the first two weeks in Sweden and Finland, and then Dad put me and my sister on a train to Paris, and rode his bike off into the sunset. (But really that was just a coincidence, since our train happened to be leaving just at nightfall.) Tanya and I were going to spend a couple of weeks in France with an exchange student who had stayed with my family several summers before. Christine was from a little town in the south of France, but she was going to meet us in Paris and spend a few days with us there before taking us back to her hometown.
There are many places in France that are ideal for bike touring, but Paris is not one of them. Not only are the streets clogged with traffic, but the French are always in a hurry, and they're easily angered, so they tend to drive like maniacs. Besides, the subway system is so good that there is really no need for any other form of transportation. Christine also pointed out that her hometown (our next destination), was so small that we could go anywhere we'd like on foot, so our bikes would not be necessary there, either. We finally decided to ship our bikes back to Amsterdam, where we were going to rendezvous with Dad before heading back to the states. At the time, this seemed an inconvenience, but in retrospect, it was quite fortuitous.
When we arrived at the travel agency to make the necessary arrangements, the line stretched all the way to the door and then along the wall. Tanya and I rolled our eyes at each other and settled in for a long wait. It was then that I saw him. He was beautiful! He was the typical French guy -- dark complexion, dark eyes with long lashes, and dark, curly hair. He was wearing denim overalls, a baseball cap, and a big smile. While he waited for his mother to finish her business, he was casually flipping through a travel brochure and flirting with people in line.
He eyed me coyly, and when I returned his smile, he "accidentally" dropped the brochure. (The oldest trick in the book, perhaps famous because of its success.) I rushed to recover the booklet, and shyly returned it. He thanked me with his eyes, and the next time I turned to look at him, he smiled and deliberately dropped the brochure on the floor. I smiled broadly, and walked over to pick it up.
His mother noticed this little exchange, and like any good mother, was a bit apprehensive about her son's romantic overtures. She intercepted my attempt to pick up the booklet, thanked me while casting a critical eye over me, and fussed over her son a bit to prove he was still hers. He protested loudly until she let him alone, then smiled shyly at me and let the booklet slide halfway to the floor. He was obviously trying to lure me closer. Understanding full well his intentions, I started toward him.
He rose to meet me, and since it was his first romantic attempt, it was a bit clumsy. Without waiting for a go-ahead signal from me, he launched himself forward and embraced me. A little confused, I began to back up. At the same moment, his mother arrived (ironically) to save him from me, and took him back to wait in line with her. They were leaving as I reached the front of the line, and I turned to watch him go. He smiled sadly and waved bye-bye from the seat of his stroller, then set his eyes toward the street outside, and to new frontiers of romance. I, too, moved on in life, but the memory of my French romance has brightened many an otherwise dreary day over the years.