How I didn’t make a friend.

I’m not racist--not on purpose any way. But I am white as hell. And I just didn’t particularly like being serenaded- and pressured into singing along to-North African tunes. I’d rather rock out to some Bon Jovi or sing ironically to Lily Allen. It’s just who I am.

Being unattached in a new city gives you the freedom to meet new people. This is often an enriching, enjoyable experience that leads to unexpected moments of joy and and friendship. Unfortunately, as I’m sure you all well know:The dark side to meeting new people. Some times new people suck to hang out with.

Or sometimes there perfectly nice but they’re just not your style and both your lives will probably be better if you don’t hang out again. Ever.

This is the story about how I met a dude in Paris, we spent a wonderfully romantic evening together... until I made my exit cuz I was totally bored. Then we awkwardly hung out again and I said I had to leave because I was tired and it was only four in the afternoon....

It all started on a warm fall night in Paris. The moon was bright and shone across the river Seine as the lights from the city danced across the water... or some such nonsense. I was restless so I went for a walk before bed. I strolled across the the bridges the Right Bank and just sauntered about for a bit. After about an hour I was ready for bed. As I walked back across the Plaza in front of Notre Dame, some dudes said something to me. I ignored them--because that’s normal--and went on my way. As I was crossing the bridge about a minute later I heard a voice yelling right behind me. One of the dudes came jogging up from behind me and stood in front of me: “Bon soir!”

I was so shocked, I just said “Bon Soir” right back.

“Sorry to bother you. It’s just that you could do me a favor,” he said in French. I looked at him doubtfully. That’s a line if I’ve heard one. But I didn’t really know what to do since he was standing right in front of me. Shoving by seemed rude. We chit-chatted for a minute, he was French but lived in Hawaii...I listened, sort of.

“Thank you for your time. Now I can tell my friend you talked to me. You won me 50 Euros”

Apparently, his friend had bet him 50 Euros I wouldn’t talk to him. I absent-mindedly brushed the dirt off my shoulder and let the man continue. I mean, he ran like 100 yards. I could talk to him for another minute.

He talked a lot and was very smiley. His friend joined us and we all joked about how he owed us dinner, I was his accomplice etc. These dudes were totally nice and funny. They were clearly really close friends and it’s always nice to see close friends have fun together.

Oh man. He fed me the best line ever. His friend opened with a totally lame line:“You know what, Georgia [they couldn’t pronounce my name], you look like Claudia Schiffer.” I laughed in his face. Only dudes outside of the USA are this lame. But then Kareem ever-so smoothly picked it right back up. He was like, “No way. She doesn’t look like Claudia Schiffer. She looks like...” then he paused for a while and just looked right at my face smiling and jokingly making an evaluation. This was cute. I smiled right back. “Hm. She looks like... she looks like no one. She looks like Georgia.” Nailed it! He had absolutely used that line before and I hope he uses it again. It was hilarious.

Anyway, they were nice. I was flattered. They had cute, nice smiles. Why shouldn’t I meet up with them to listen to them play guitar tomorrow? I’m hip. I’m cool. I know what guitars are. So I gave Kareem my number and told him to give me a call.

He did. We all met up, bought some wine, had some weed. It all promised to be a good time. We were sitting on the side of the Seine, he rolled us a few joints. He bought me this bottle of wine called Vieux Pape--it might actually be the cheapest drinkable wine in Paris. Then he opened it without a bottle-opener using this complicated shaking/banging method. Baller. He was totally nice and funny about it. His friend was there too for a while and it was only a little awkward.

We talked, we laughed, we drank, we smoked. Then he started playing guitar--or some 12-string version of a guitar. He assured me it was different and cool. He played Arabic and Berber music. You know, it was cool. I really had never heard anything like it before. I was all like, yea, I dig. I’m open. Berber music. wow. That’s, like, in Africa or something... yea.

Then it got boring, yo. And he kept talking about it like it was Allah’s gift to the people or something. I listened. I laughed with him. I talked some. I was pretty high so I didn’t feel uncomfortable or anything. He just kept going, and going. I realized I hadn’t made an escape plan. I had no excuse to leave. So in the middle of one of his songs I started talking about a job interview I had the next day.... He looked confused. Then I said I was tired. Then I got up and shook out my legs.

God. This guy could not take a hint. And I had better shit to do. A few friends were hanging out. Or I heard there was some paint drying nearby. I could have been watching that. But no: I was sitting on the side of a river with a dude who would not stop playing his goddamn mandolin. Eventually I got him up and made 10 more excuses about why I had to go to bed at 10:30. He walked my back to my door managing to meet 5 people he knew on the way and introduce me to them.

Finally I got rid of him. I just kept agreeing with whatever he said. “Hang out tomorrow? Of course. Yea. I’d be totally up for it. Call me.” He continued with some sort of schedule. I wasn’t listening. “Yea. Definitely. You and me hanging out. The sequel. It’s gonna be great.” Get me out of here. I know this is harsh. But it had been like 3 hours of sitting and I was bored and a little paranoid from the weed. It felt like a waste of life talking to this guy. I would rather be alone.

As soon as I got in my door, I texted my friends to see if they were still hanging out. They weren’t. Damnit. Now I was restless again. It was only 10:30 and I was not tired at all. Obviously. So I did what I did the night before: I went for a walk. I walked a different way this time. Although, what are the chances that the dude would be in the same place? He had been on his way to a friend’s in the North of Paris. The chances were slim to none.

And yet.

Right after I hung up the phone with my friend and had just finished complaining about how boring this totally romantic thing was... who should I hear calling my name? Kareem. Fuck.

It was so awkward. I mean, what do you say? Sorry, I was bored to tears? Or your music was great but not really my style? Your breath is strange, thanks for the weed? I’m just not that into you?I made a few awkward sounds then just started being real with him. I said I had fun and would like to be his friend but that was it. He asked me again about meeting up. This time I listened and told him the truth: Probably not, but you have my number. Then I walked away.

He called 3 times the next day. Go away!

Then 2 weeks later he texted me. I groaned at first. But, you know how it is when you forget how bad something was. I was sure it would be the right thing to do to give him another chance. We didn’t have to get married or anything. We could just be friends. I need friends. Every one needs friends. So I went over to his house this afternoon to smoke some weed.

...And was just as bored as I had been the first time.

Confirmed. Nice smile though he may have, I never want to hang with this dude again. He just kept talking. My mind kept wandering. I thought it was the weed. But really it was the company. He tried to make me dance and sing in Arabic. I danced a little, sang a little. It was painful. He just kept dancing around. I just kept on vaguely playing along to be nice. Man, did I work hard to get out of there. Again: no escape plan. I have got to learn my lesson on that one. I said I had to meet a friend later. I said I was tired. I said.... god knows what I said. But it was not convincing. Finally I think he got tired of me yawning and realized what I was saying. I was saying, “Look. You seem funny and nice. But can we not be friends? I’m no into you or your music. Call me never.” There was a pretty thick silence in the wee little elevator on the way down. He muttered something like “C’est la vie.” Meanwhile, I was still a little stoned and I couldn’t help laughing at how awkward and silly this was. I mean, who cares? I’ll never see him again (I hope.).

So I didn’t make a friend. But I did get to hear some new music, and learn how to open a bottle wine with no corkscrew, and figured out a great spot on the side of the river where you can see the back of Notre Dame and the Hotel de Ville. All of those could be great ingredients to a future date - with some one I actually like.

Meeting Girls in Paris

Eva Green, star of Dreamers, a Bond movie, the Golden Compass and maybe some other stuff. When French people first learn how to speak English, it sounds really high-pitched and stunted. But once they reach a certain level, they learn how to elongate their vowels and change the cadence of their voices, it sounds really goddamn sexy. Eva Green has achieved this level of English.

Tuesday, October 13, 2009

One of my first nights here, my roommate (a 35-ish dude) told me that when it really got down to it, the reason he moved to Paris was for the girls.

I couldn’t agree more.

But meeting girls in Paris is NOT THAT EASY. Meeting guys? Fuck. That’s easier than breathing here. All you have to do is dress up decently, take the metro a few stops and three dudes will ask you if you’d like to “prendre un verre” with them. (Pardon my written French, it blows.) But meeting girls on the other hand... that is a real challenge. And it is one that I am not making any progress on. I already wrote about how I went to this gay-girl bar by myself. It’s called 3W... “Woman with Woman.” Clever, France, very clever. That did not work. I did however vindicate myself by going back there with a few friends (we were trying to find a boy-bar to go dancing but we got lost and I was like “I know where we can go!”) and scored some French girl’s number. But when I woke up the next morning I only had a vague memory of the event and couldn’t remember anything I or she said. Let alone what she looked like. Rookie mistake. My friends said she “looked totally charmed” but I’m not sure I believe them as I had reached the point in the night when I lose all my French and can barely get a sentence out in English. But whatever.

So this week’s gay-misadventure involved the internet. I looked up lesbian meet-ups in Paris or some such nonsense and eventually found my way to this site:http://www.girlports.com/lesbiantravel/destinations/paris/social_cultural_associations . I currently have it bookmarked as “Gay stuff.” A lot of it (all of it?) is totally lame. But, you gotta do what you gotta do. I know no one in this city (meaning I know like 10 people) and I know no lesbians (meaning I know no lesbians). So on Sunday night I geared up. I bought a pack of cigarettes (my social crutch of choice) dressed chic but not-too-girly (easy with my new somewhat butchier cut). And off I went to some Sunday night “Tea-Party-Dance Club.” What? I should have known it would suck by the name.

It started at 6... I rolled on by at like 7:30 ish... Not only was it in some weird building complex on the side of the Pompidou Centre, it was also COMPLETELY empty. Not a smoker in sight standing around it. In Paris, that means a bar is dead. Maybe it didn’t really start at 6?

So I rolled on home and bought a falafel and watched some internet tv. But then I got to thinking and I was like, fuck that. I am not letting THAT be my night. So I finished my falafel, turned off “How I met your mother” and headed out into the night, again. This time I went to this bar that I had stumbled past on the way to 3W with my friends. It looked more laid back. I stopped across the street, did some internal battling so I had a cigarette and walked on in. It was quiet, the bartender smiled at me. I asked for a beer and was awkward about it. Ugh. I hate being awkward.

Then I sat there for like half my beer wondering what I should stare at. That’s the good thing about bars for boys-n-girls, they usually have sports you can pretend to watch. No such luck here. After a bit, I got to talking to the bartendress. She obviously knew I was a total newbie. But she took pity on me and talked to me in French and gave me advice. I could have gotton down on my knees and thanked her. She gave me the whole scoop on where was cool to go, how some bars are mostly couples, where some spots are to check out. I asked her about the place I had passed by earlier. She said it was totally scary and butchy. Noted.

So I finished my beer (this shitty drink called “Desperado” that should never have been invented) and thanked her. Awesome. So now I know where to meet women? Not really. But I guess it’s cool that I have a vague idea about what’s out there in terms of Paris nightlife. So then I went and got high for like 5 hours with my friend and this dude she knows who believes in the Hollow Earth Theory. Man, I love this place. I might not be getting any action, but at least I’m meeting all these nutty, amazingly kind people.

ItZ a tHuG LifE

Tuesday, September 29, 2009

Since one of my roommates lives in our kitchen on a small cot next to the fridge and uses the stove as a bedside table, I’ve had to come up with some creative ways to cook. So I got steamer (for free. I know a guy) and a kettle (13 €. I didn’t know a guy) and have been working from there. My diet mostly consists of rice, lentils and vegetables, supplemented by crepes from the good place nearby. Cereal is sort of an option but it feels weird waking up Shayne to get the the fridge in the morning. He’s 71. He needs his rest.

Speaking of Shayne: The dude’s a baller. Like I said: He’s 71. He’s been married a bunch of times and has kids ranging from 30 to 12. You do the math. That’s right, he was impregnating some way younger French woman when he was like 60. He spends his days working on various writing projects, watching movies (and House) and smoking as much weed as he can afford. My other roommate (a very nice guy who does graphic design and moved here to escape LA) calls Shayne “a beat poet without a publisher.” And that’s exactly what he is. He’s this nutty dude who has been living in Paris for like 30 years. He writes and takes pictures and tries to get with younger women. So nowadays he’s after 50 to 60 year-olds. And all the while he’s talking about lines of energy and how it’s just such a relief that most communication happens telepathically--otherwise we would have to waste so much more time talking to each other. He’s nuts and I love it. The only drawback is that occasionally when I walk in the door (after climbing to floor 4 1/2 and saying “hi” to the kitten who lives on the stairs), he’ll corner me and force me to listen to the play he’s revising. Sometimes it’s the one on Joan of Arc; Sometimes it’s the one on Eva Hitler. Heavy stuff all around. Anyway, thanks for reading. Tune in next week for the entry in which I explore my latest theory: If Asian girls are the last stop for gay guys, are French guys the last stop for gay girls? Think about it.

Before Chuck Norris, dipthongs were separate sounds

Monday, September 28, 2009

So I got my certificate to teach English as a foreign language last week. That way I can justify my existence in almost any country in the world except for my own and Britain’s former affiliates. It’s fun being a teacher: you get to get up in front of a group of people and they have to listen to you. What is more, they’ll almost always do what you say and believe what you say as long as you say it firmly enough. I have a skill for saying things with conviction even when I have absolutely nothing to back it up and/or zero knowledge about the subject matter. I’ve always wondered where that skill set would come in handy. And now I know that it’s for telling little old French ladies when they should say “have to” instead of “must.” That’s really what the post-college years are all about: exploring yourself and where you fit best in society.

I also learned a thing or two about about a thing two. Mostly about Chuck Norris (from my fellow trainees) and the phonetic alphabet (from our teacher). But I also learned that grammar can suck it because I rock at arbitrary rules and labels. And don’t ever plan a language lesson revolving around how to talk about your sex-life in English unless you are 100% sure that no 13 year-old Muslim girls will show up just when you get to “How to say you slept with some one.” Boy, was her face (and mine) red.