Anyone who talks to me for more than five seconds will learn I don’t like French dudes. I like to generalize them all as creeps.
I could go on and on about this, but instead I will present to you two completely isolated case studies. Your task, my dear blog reader, is to figure out which guy is French and which is American.
1. My bike and I are idling at a red light by République. A guy wearing a bright green tee and nametag – which means he collects money for some charity/scam – frantically starts signaling to me. He has noticed that I have a flat tire, and I need to get out of the street asap. I become calmly frantic and get outta there fast to the safety of the sidewalk, where I start to inspect my bike. Actually, he tells me, you don’t have a flat tire. I just said that to get your attention. Then he proceeds to spin his spiel on the charity/scam he works for by trying to be very very flirtatious.
I am not buying any of it, because he has already proved himself to be a LIAR. I don’t like liars, particularly when it concerns my safety and my bike. Furthermore, he commits an error even more grave than assuming I am a student, which is one of my hugest pet peeves. Instead, he assumes I have quit school. Yes. Naturally. I am young and not enrolled in a university, so that must mean I am a quitter. I am magnificently unimpressed by this guy’s game. I escape back to the street with my bike, whose tires are just as un-flat as they were prior to this waste of 5 minutes of my life, whose name may or may not have been Guillaume.
2. I am taking pictures of an artsy alley in Belleville. A guy approaches me and asks me what model of camera I have. I have a Nikon D80. Oh, I have a D60, he says. This is a good move. He has found a way to talk to me by approaching a common interest of ours. He asks my name, I ask his. We chat for a few minutes. Did you hear about the party tonight? He asks. No, what party? Well, he says, there are going to be a ton of people at this bar in Buttes Chamont. It was a lot of fun last night, and I’m going back tonight. I happen to know exactly what bar he is talking about, because it is one of my favorites. More bonus points, because we enjoy the same bars.
He finishes the conversation by telling me it would be great to see me there later. Then he goes his merry little way, and I go mine. He doesn’t insist on taking my phone number, but still expressed interest in getting to know me better. I have an open invitation to accept the offer or not. If I was looking to meet guys, I would have. Especially because he did not immediately lead me to believe he was a LIAR.
So, who’s who? And what fine example of his culture tastefully and properly knew how to hit on a girl?*
*I feel as though I must add a disclaimer explaining I understand all French or American males are not equal to their respective case studies. I know that. That’s not the point of this exercise.