Every first Sunday of the month, museums all over Paris open their doors, free of charge, to the public. And on one such Sunday at the Louvre, I was checking out the decorative arts section when I noticed that the one other guy in the room with me was kind of cute.
I thought no more of him until I realized, five rooms later, that he was still there.
Was he following me? Should I be creeped out?
I decided that I would not be creeped out and that I’d give him the benefit of the doubt since he was “kind of cute”. (Yes, I know, I’m superficial and I’m okay with it.)
However, I wanted to make sure that he was following ME, and not just following the prescribed route through the ceramics section and reading the captions in the tapestry rooms at the exact same rate as me.
So I decided to conduct a test.
I abruptly left the Objets d’Art section, went up several escalators, and traversed the length of the wing to get to the French Paintings section. When I checked behind me, he was still there!
Yay! He totally digs me. I wasn’t imagining things!
But then I thought to myself, why hasn’t he made a move?
Pansy-ass french man.
He eventually ran out of time, since the museum staff herded the crowds out the door at closing time. No surprise, but we “magically” ended up in the same metro train car.
Yet he still hadn’t sacked up to chat me up.
I was fed up with his pansy-ass pansiness, so I decided to be ballsy.
I wrote my number on the back of my ballet ticket from the night before, and I handed it to him as I was getting out at my stop. I blasted him with my most winning smile and pranced away — my heart beating wildly from the adrenaline rush of doing something so ballsy.
Now you’re probably thinking, this story sounds like a fantastic when-we-first-met story that happily married couples have.
Yeah. Right. Come on, stuff like that doesn’t happen in the world of Manshopping in Paris.
Things went awry when we arranged a date. It was the date the launched my illustrious full-time career of painful dating in Paris.
He had this high-pitched voice and barely-above-a-whisper mumble, which I found unbearable and impossible to understand. But most importantly, his personality was just flat. If I stared long enough, I could swear that he was actually one-dimensional.
My boredom was so severe that I’m scared that it may have caused some brain hemorrhaging at the time.
The worst of it was that I couldn’t seem to get out of the date! He managed to cling to me all the way from the restaurant to my door (it was a 40 minute walk!), and the whole experience was very unpleasant, to put it mildly.
The next day I told him that it wasn’t going to work for us romantically. In other words, I told him to bugger off and leave me alone.
And a normal guy would have, right?
But of course, I’m incapable of finding a normal parisian man to date.
He wouldn’t stop asking me out.
He asked me out to dinner to introduce me to his friends.
He asked me to accompany him to work functions.
Three months later, when he moved to India, he sent me weekly updates and demanded to know why I wasn’t responding.
Three months after that, when he moved back to France, he continued to pester me.
And now, two and a half years later, gmail is still filtering his emails directly into my trash bin.
Apparently this guy has nobody else to bother except some random woman who gave him her number on the metro two and half years ago.
I have concluded that he has no friends.
Of course, out of all the men in Paris, I picked THIS winner to hit on.
And I’ve been saying “Next!” for the past two and a half years.