Here's how it happened: We met at the cutest little coffee shop by the Sorbonne and I ordered un expres which tastes like the devil's asshole and then he asked for my number, and well, the rest is history.
No, I'm totally kidding-- instead of asking for my number he asked if I wanted to pay in cash or credit card and then looked creeped out as I stared in awe of his attractiveness. This, unfortunately, is a true story, but I'm not too ashamed because the next day, I fell in love again and this time it was real. (Again, totally kidding. In fact, don't ever take what I say seriously because chances are I'm being sarcastic.)
Basically, I "fall in love" like every time I don't have dinner with my host parents and have a male waiter under the age of 40. I'm pretty sure I even fell in love that time I saw my plate of foie gras being brought out to me at Bouillon Racine, and this time I mean I fell in love with the dish, not the waiter.
Now, don't get me wrong. Yes, I did go to an all-girls' school for ten years, but I was not nearly this boy obsessed when I first started at Wes. I've started to seriously become worried for myself because I can't keep falling in love with waiters. I began asking myself: Am I going crazy? Maybe. Are people here just that much more attractive than in the States? Unclear.
In the back of my head, however, I heard a little voice. Her name is Kate Gibbel. "Froggles", she said. And I was like "Wutthefuck Kgibz?" And she was like "Yeah, Gabarias. Froggles."
"Froggles" are short for "Frisbee Goggles" AKA the sad realization that all the guys at our annual Frisbee Tournament are just inherently nerdy and unattractive, therefore standards must be lowered and one must wear these aforementioned goggles.
Similar concept applies here, in France, except "Froggles" mean "French Goggles". You could honestly be kinda fugz but the fact that you're French makes you that much hotter or suave or whatever the fuck you wanna call it. The longer I'm here though, the more I realize that French guys aren't that different from Americans. It's really just the damn accent. And lack of boat shoes/critter shorts. AND, if hypothetically a French guy asked me out, we would literally have nothing to talk about on our date because the state of my French fluency is in shambles.
So, Ceci, even though you're probably not reading this, don't worry. I probably won't stay behind in Paris because of some French dude who drives a vespa. In the mean time, catch me eating my feelings and eating dinner alone in my room:
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| Fact: I also fell in love with the guy who sold me this baguette. |
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