BoomerGirl Diary

Living in Paris, I am slowly learning the perils of having all the people who were never nice to you in the U.S. suddenly being your best friend when they think it means a free place to stay. Real estate is very expensive in this city, and so most Paris residents rent or own just what they can afford. Almost no one keeps an empty guest room: that's not only wasteful, but we Parisians must pay an annual "taxe d'habitation" based on the square meters of space occupied divided by the number of people living there. So it’s no surprise that apartments tend to be small.

On the other hand, of course, limited space or no, we all have our truly dear pals from “home” who would love to come to Paris (and whom we would GLADLY lodge on the sofa for months for the mere pleasure and delight of their company) who, because they are so thoughtful and sensitive, don't even ask to visit because they wouldn't want to inconvenience you. What terrible irony! These are the ones you truly want and need.

Evidently everyone falls into this trap when they first move to Paris and then they learn.... about the evil house guest. My learning saga:

First, I hardly know him. I'll call him "Sam". We had a couple of dates in New York before I moved to Paris, dates at his brownstone in Brooklyn that were okay but basically went nowhere. Highly opinionated, self absorbed, yet thinks he's helpful in his critiques and observations, he can't fathom why he has difficulty getting along with his adult children. I hadn't heard a word from him in a year. Or cared to. Then suddenly when I was back in New York on business I got an e-mail from him saying that he’d be in Paris last month and he'd "love to see me" — he would be staying with old friends in the Marais.

Now to be fair, at the moment I had some other romantic prospects here in Paris, and naively thought it would at least be good to parade around some American "competition" to get the message delivered, testosterone jump-started, etc. I don't usually do this, but it was all to bolster my self-esteem, which was flagging at the moment. I thus forgave myself for any extent to which I may have been shamelessly exploiting Sam's interest in me.

So I agreed to see Sam when he was in Paris — he very specifically asked me to block out Saturday evening and Sunday. Sounds like a Date to me, with a capital D.

Said Saturday rolls around and he is nowhere to be seen at the appointed hour — I had given him all the instructions for getting to my place. As agreed, once he is 15 minutes late, I will go down to the street to look for him, in case he has doorway "digicode" difficulties, a known phenomenon in Paris. Every 10 minutes I head down to the street — no Sam. Finally after 40 minutes have elapsed I go back to the street and spot him striding down the street away from my building — he thought my address was a different number, and hadn't brought it with him.

Is it me, or have I gotten impatient with out-of-towners who don't understand about the importance of planning ahead, keeping all the info that you have told them is VERY important to keep? Visiting Americans who think they know better than you in Paris are exhausting.

Exasperated, Sam complains that it was impossible to find any subway entrances in the 4th arrondissement, so he had to walk 45 minutes across the Seine to get here, got lost, very very VERY sweaty and so asks immediately if he might remove his shirt (strip down to sweaty yellow mildewed Tshirt - ugh) because he had thought he should bring lots of layers, and wore them all while speed-walking the wrong way through Paris.

Okay, so already things are not going so well.

He eyes my apartment and laughs, "You're living in a college student's apartment," and snickers at about everything else I'm doing. I graciously chalk it up to nervousness on his part. Then after drinking a few of my beers he says, "Wherever you'd like to go for dinner is fine with me." So I obligingly take him to my favorite neighborhood resto, where I am known and almost ready to be a regular — une habituee. Very cheap and boisterous and good food. Very tiny, Parisian and old fashioned. A delightful gem.

At the end of the unbelievably inexpensive meal, Sam leans in toward me and semi-seductively says, "Polly, it would be my great honor if you'd let me pay for this meal." Like it was fricking Taillevent or something and he was throwing down a purple velvet cape for me to stroll in the door. Puhleeeez.

But I'm too nice. So I thank him profusely, we go for a spin on foot around the neighborhood and wind up back at my apartment door. I’m ready to call it an evening and bid him goodnight. Then — I can't believe this — he asks that I accompany him to the subway station, three blocks away, so he won't get lost again.

Aaggh. I guess I've become too Parisian in my sensibilities, but that was such an un-macho move. Gross. A real turn-off.

So let's do the addition. Sweat, bad manners, correcting me (did I mention that?) about my knowledge of French, being conveniently feminist/new-age when it comes to paying for meals, complaining about Paris, more sweat, ridiculing my lifestyle, being a sissy about going to the Metro. Oh, and I forgot to mention stray nose hair and how he totally befouled the bathroom, right after stripping down to his T shirt, moments after arriving. The spray can of Air Wick lavande is there for a reason, Mister. Ditto the ventilator fan.

Why oh why did I even agree to meet him the next day? I guess from boredom, and because I had said I would, and we have mutual friends in the U.S., he's intelligent enough and likes French literature, and we can have decent conversations. And I think it's sometimes more fun to be out and about in Paris with a member of the opposite sex, when there is the opportunity. And he’s not ugly or even plain.

So Sunday we meet — of course I couldn't get him to even try to travel to any place new, since now all he knows is my apartment. So I head back across the Seine from church, in the 8th, to meet him at my place in the 7th, then we head back to the 8th to the Parc Monceau. A colossal waste of time, all that criss-crossing of Paris. We have a so-so lunch in a gorgeous setting. At the end of which Sam offers, "Let's just split it 50/50." I am definitely not accustomed to this from a 60-year-old man. Then he gives me 20E for his half of a 46E bill and figures that's even. I am in shock.

Chump that I am, I spend the afternoon showing him all the fabulous lesser-known sites of the 8th and 7th arrondissements. Then walking back to my apartment along the Esplanade of the Invalides he pops the question, "This is awkward, I don't know how to ask this..." finally getting around to some sob story that he has to leave his hosts' place Monday but doesn't have to be in London until Tuesday, so maybe — well who knows how things will evolve, he mumbles, but — could he sleep at my place Monday night?
"I'm happy to be chaste," he says.

"Spell that, please, " I retort.

So at a weak moment I agree — I had no plans for Monday evening, so what the hell. Someone to take me to dinner, how bad could that be?

Then he departs to his hosts' house to go to a dinner party being held in his honor. Oh, really? So I'm so irrelevant in his Paris visit that he couldn't even lightly suggest to his hosts that they invite me, for example? Not that I really wanted to go, but at this point I'm feeling mightily used. Only relevant enough to be a tour guide and lodging provider.

The next day Sam arrives at my apartment door at 6:01 pm, suitcase in tow. Immediately asks for a beer (before I could even offer one). Relaxes with his feet up on my beige couch, dusty shoes ON. I am busy finishing some correspondence on my computer. Then he inquires if he could check his e-mail when I'm through. No prob. I'll be glad for him to get his shoes off my sofa.

Sam then proceeds to write many lengthy, lengthy e-mails to Lord knows who using the "I am an angry cub reporter typing on a Corona manual typewriter" approach on my slim new laptop. He is heaving big sighs, wiping his dripping brow with the back of his hand, and smashing the keys with mach force. From the other room I can hear the keyboard being furiously bashed. I am cringeing. This delicate keyboard already has some issues. "What kind of computer do you have at home?" I venture. "Does it have an old, sticky keyboard? Is that why you crunch the keys so ...adamantly?" Clueless, self-absorbed, he doesn't answer.

"You know, this keyboard of mine is SOO incredible," I mention. "All you have to do is lightly tap the keys and it goes even faster. Very sensitive to the touch."

"Naw," he starts complaining, "I just can't deal with this — this PC. I have a Mac at home. Much better configuration."

Then after "checking " his e-mail by brutalizing my laptop for another 45 minutes, he mercifully stops what he's doing, stands up and says, "OK, I'm ready for dinner," as if he expects me to have been Domestic Diva whipping up a five-course meal while he was busy.

"There's a nice little restaurant down the street, a little more upscale, if that meets your budget," I suggest. So we amble to a little bistro nearby, and things seem a little better. Sam at least has enough savoir-faire to order some interesting menu items like civet de singlier, and I order the brandade de morue. Musing over what wine to choose, Sam puffs up and "gallantly" says, "Polly, you can choose the more expensive wine (24 euros!) — I'll pay for the wine and we can split the rest of the bill."

Oh man, he's just killing me with the chivalry — not only as a guy but as a guest! How much would a Paris hotel room have cost him? Jeez, if he thinks he's going to get free bed AND get lucky tonight, NFW. He's just slapped a soaking-wet duvet on any faint sparks that might have been lurking.

Then the wine comes and the waiter pours a little into Sam's glass, and instead of tasting the Bordeaux he just SMELLS his glass and nods that it's fine. Excellent wine, that Chateau de Cretin. I wonder if he would have nibbled the cork. The superb dinner arrives and he insists that we share tastes and proceeds wihout asking to jab from across the table at the food on my plate. Good thing none of the food falls in his lap, because his napkin is still very nicely folded next to his plate. I'm starting to lose my appetite, and desperately hope that the waiters aren't smirking too much.

I am at a loss for words to dissuade him from any of these behaviors. I simply elaborate about a new business project: a course to help American women learn French etiquette, fashion, and comportment. Tonight this gives me a venue to discuss charming anecdotes of good and bad manners from both cultures. Some story I mention must finally resonate. He eventually catches on a bit, and admits, "I am probably a transgressor in many of those areas."

"Don't worry, you can learn," I suggest acid-sweetly.

Then, joy of joys, time to come home and make up the guest bed in the pull-out sofa. Yes indeedy. It would have been the biggest leap from zero to supersonic speed, dating-wise, to have any other sleeping arrangements. Trust me.

Whew. I'm home-free, I think. But no, the final coup. Sam announces, as if this were already a given and no problemo, "Well, I guess it is best to head to bed now, as I have to be at the Gare du Nord at 6:30 tomorrow morning. Don't worry, I don't expect you to take me to the station."

Excuse me??? So I have to get up at 5:45 to make sure he's actually gone in time? And I'm supposed to be thrilled to be relieved of dropping him at the station? I don't even own a car.

I am either too gracious a hostess or too much of a sucker, and so the next morning I actually arise and fix breakfast to send him on his way.

As he's wheeling his suitcase toward the door, he confides, "You know, Polly, if you weren't living in Paris I would really want to pursue a relationship with you. You are a fascinating creature."

I smile generously as I nudge him into the elevator cage, "Oh, I'm sure you would. But I AM living in Paris. Oh well. Bon voyage, Sam."

Watching that elevator descend out of sight I dance a little jig.

And dash to my computer to start writing.