Warning to my mother: Some of this is about sex.
When I started this blog, I didn't really expect people to read it. So, I didn't think twice about what happens when you're dating someone and you want to write about them, until my friend, Brian, expressed that he would have trouble dating me, knowing that there's a chance I'd be chatting with the internet about our relationship.The truth is that if these guys are facebook friends, which some of them are, they probably read it. (And hey look, Brian, we're not even dating and I'm still chatting with the internet about our relationship.)
There are some un-Brian-like guys who, even if I'm completely blasting them as human beings, actually like that I write about them. It's an ego thing, I believe. Coop has made it known that he reads it. I know that Mr. Writer/Personality is a "silent follower". Even Trivia Guy has made a couple of comments to me about a few entries. I suspect that there are others out there who keep their readership a secret.
I love people's reactions when they read it, especially when they laugh. It makes me feel really great. It's also gained me some exposure and has presented me with opportunities to write for other blogs (and even become an editor for a dating short story website, a job that I'll be starting later this month). It's an extremely rewarding hobby.
But, there are cons. There's Brian's Argument. And then, the problem of, when I do like somebody and I write about it, I'm playing my hand, which is dating homicide. While I wear my heart on my cardigan, it's the maintenance of romantic surprise that keeps the beginning of a relationship interesting.
Most recently, I went out with a guy who let me know right away that he reads the blog. He also let me know that he didn't mind if I blogged about him. And all in all, this leads me to the biggest benefit of all...when a guy blows you off, you get to Taylor Swift him. I wrote this story earlier in the week last week, right after our date. And then, later in the week, I asked what he was up to, and he told me he was "really busy". So, I changed my tone. My post-blow-off comments are in bold:
"This guy and I met last summer. I was volunteering backstage at a music festival. He was playing guitar for one of the bands. Let's call him Les Paul. [Let's call him CC DeVille.] He's one of the most talented guitarists I've ever heard. And I loved that he was as into music as I am. We talked for a couple of hours that day. We had an obvious connection, but kept it platonic..and about music. What bands we were into. The first concert that we ever went to. He told me about his first AC/DC concert. I told him that I can drum most of AC/DC's catalogue but only because the beats are the same on 90% of the songs. It was revealed later that we were both seeing other people at the time, which is why it stayed a platonic conversation. But, the connection was clearly there and we exchanged numbers with the ruse that we would let each other know about upcoming shows.
Over the past year, we kept in touch. In the meantime, I had become single and as I found out later, so had he. One night, a few weeks ago, I caught him by text on the road. They weren't playing that night and he was just hanging out in a dive bar in Madison, WI playing pool. I was getting over a cold and I was having trouble sleeping. We exchanged some flirty texts and finally made a date with each other. Since he was coming back from his tour and he lives an hour and a half away [and is a lazy ass], I agreed to come down to his hometown.
He was down the street at a neighbor's house when I arrived, and he told me to feel free to let myself in. He has two gigantic adorable dogs that were happy to see me. His home was really cozy and welcoming. He came in a few minutes later. He was adorably nervous [and high] in the beginning, but simmered down after a while. We laughed so much and had so much chemistry. We shared a kiss in his kitchen about one hour into the date and just really enjoyed getting to know each other.
I had been watching the clock since it was a Sunday night and an hour and a half drive home. And so had he. He said to me, "I'm not ready to let you go yet. Just stay here. My roommate's away and you can sleep in her room. I'm just not ready to say goodbye." I was resistant. I knew that if I did stay over, it wasn't very likely with the amount chemistry that we had that I would be sleeping in his roommate's room. But, earlier that night, while we were discussing musicians in general, I had playfully accused him of having a woman in every city. He had told me that I had the wrong idea about him. That he wasn't into one-night stands. That he was a relationship-type guy. He said, "I think you're falling for me" and I said, "I think YOU'RE falling for ME" and he responded, "I fell for you the day I met you". And a voice [probably his] told me to trust him. And so I stayed.
In the morning, he held me until it was time for me to go. He told me to text him so that he knew that I got home safe. And I drove home, recapping the night in my head with small smile. I couldn't wait to see him again [until he blew me off.]"
Me, again. Now, I'm sure you could have predicted what was going to happen. I realize that I was being naive. A man who wants to sleep with you can make anything sound good. Hell, Bob Seger's "We've Got Tonight" is a whole song about it. Of course I know that everything that he said to me that night was a line. I'm positive that if I hadn't spent the night that night, there would have been no bold writing here. I just was feeling hopeful, that after the time that we had spent together, just this once, this one guy would be different. For once, a man would feel as connected to someone after having sex with them as he did before, like a woman does.
But, let me be clear that I also realize that none of this is a "me" problem. This is all a "him" problem. And this is something that I hope everyone thinks about themselves when they're the "dumpee". The best way to get over someone, no matter how brief your relationship, is to focus on their flaws. Everyone has them...EVERYONE. With CC DeVille, obviously, he has trouble facing his problems head on. In the past year or so, he has shown me some insecurities that I think would get tiring after a while. And, I know that I would always be the one to initiate plans and that I would have to provoke attention from him, unless I gave him beer. But, his biggest flaw of all...not realizing how freaking awesome I am. My sense of humor can be very self-deprecating, but the reality is, I have a pretty high opinion of myself and rightfully so. I'm beautiful, incredibly talented, so so smart. I'm kind and I care about others' feelings and I always try to be as considerate as possible. I'm blessed enough to have a good sense of myself. I know who I am and I'm very lucky to be me. And woe to CC DeVille for letting me go.
Tuesday, May 13, 2014
Friday, May 9, 2014
Tales from France, Part III: Le Gay Paris
Since it was Jeff's birthday, and since I had already had my romantic rendezvous for the trip, I agreed to head out with Jeff to some of Paris's finest gay clubs. I actually enjoy going to gay clubs. It's a crowded room full of typically very handsome men (often shirtless) who flirt with me but aren't trying to get me to have sex with them. I mean, come on, that's a gold medal night for a girl.
The problem was: we had no idea where Paris's finest gay clubs were. I'm typically a planner. When I go to Disney World, I plan every day's itinerary to the minute, including what ride route we're going to take. I make restaurant reservations six months in advance. I have literally said to someone, "I'm going to the movies that day" when they offer plans for a date three months into the future. And this Paris trip was no different. I had spreadsheets drawn up of where we were going, what we were doing, with included attachments of the walking maps to get there. Jeff had one job. ONE JOB. And that was to choose which club he wanted to go to, and find out where it was. The night of our birthday festivities, we went to a pub near the hotel for a kickoff beer and I said to Jeff, "So, where are we going?" And he answered, "Oh, I don't know. I figured we'd just ask the bartender where we should go." I responded, "Oh yes. The straight German bartender with the neck tattoo who hasn't stopped talking about Manchester U? I'm sure he knows where the gay clubs are."
When we asked the bartender if he knew of a good gay club to go to. He looked at us with a blank stare. Then said, questioningly, "I think that there are a whole bunch on Saint-Michel" and proceeded to give us directions.
Jeff and I paid up and headed down to Saint-Michel. Once we got there, we walked up and down the street, but couldn't find any club, let alone a gay club. So, we stopped someone for directions.
"Excusez-moi? Do you know of any gay clubs in this area?"
"Yes, they're on Saint-Michel"
"Ok, thanks."
We once again walked up and down Boulevard Saint-Michel. By this point, I was getting tired and a little bit cranky and frustrated at Jeff for not doing his research. We stopped another person for directions.
"Excusez-moi? We're looking for a gay club?"
"There's some on Saint-Michel."
"Do you know what it's called in particular, or where on Saint-Michel it is?
"No, I'm sorry," with a sympathetic look.
What was this? We were on Saint-Michel. Where was this ghost gay club that everyone kept talking about? I took out my phone and consulted google, which also told me Saint-Michel. Was this some conspiracy between the French citizens and Google to turn gays off to the city of Paris? Finally, I said to Jeff, we need to find some gay men and get them to show us. Now, this is harder than you think. The "Gay or European" game was invented for a reason. It's really tough to tell the difference sometimes. But, when a couple of men walked toward us with their hands touching, I knew we had found our saviors. Unfortunately, they didn't speak English.
Since one of them had a more Mediterranean look, I took a shot and asked if they spoke Spanish. And the one that I had pegged for a Spaniard said, "Ah! Si!" So, in my broken Spanish, I said, "Estamos buscando por un club donde...um, los muchachos se gustan los muchachos." The Spaniard laughed and then translated to French what I had asked for his boyfriend, who also started laughing. Their answer: Saint-Michel.
After forty-five minutes of walking, Jeff and I decided to call it a night and go back to the hotel. We hailed a cab and started driving back. The cab turned onto a street called Rue du Temple. I looked out the cab window...men were coming out of the clubs onto Rue du Temple in droves. Men holding hands, men making out with each other on the street, men skipping to each other. I'm not being offensive. There were literally men skipping to each other on Rue du Temple. The irony was too much for us and we decided to keep heading home and try Rue du Temple the next night, which we did.
The next night, we did have a blast on Rue du Temple. A bouncer stopped us at the door and warned us that we were heading into a gay club, which I thought was nice, as he didn't want an unassuming American couple to walk into something that they weren't ready for. Both Jeff and I yelled excitedly, "We know!" and walked into a soapy naked guy in a shower with a bunch of men crowded around him watching. I met some boys from Chicago and danced with them for most of the night. And later I had a very nice conversation with the naked man in the shower. His name was Jean-Baptiste and he was in grad school.
So, did we ever solve the Case of the Ghost Gay Club at Saint-Michel, Nancy Drew? Well, although we thought we were walking down Saint-Michel, we were actually walking on the street perpendicular to it. So while we were hitting Saint-Michel at the corner, we weren't actually going down it. Mystery solved. Americans are dumb.
The problem was: we had no idea where Paris's finest gay clubs were. I'm typically a planner. When I go to Disney World, I plan every day's itinerary to the minute, including what ride route we're going to take. I make restaurant reservations six months in advance. I have literally said to someone, "I'm going to the movies that day" when they offer plans for a date three months into the future. And this Paris trip was no different. I had spreadsheets drawn up of where we were going, what we were doing, with included attachments of the walking maps to get there. Jeff had one job. ONE JOB. And that was to choose which club he wanted to go to, and find out where it was. The night of our birthday festivities, we went to a pub near the hotel for a kickoff beer and I said to Jeff, "So, where are we going?" And he answered, "Oh, I don't know. I figured we'd just ask the bartender where we should go." I responded, "Oh yes. The straight German bartender with the neck tattoo who hasn't stopped talking about Manchester U? I'm sure he knows where the gay clubs are."
When we asked the bartender if he knew of a good gay club to go to. He looked at us with a blank stare. Then said, questioningly, "I think that there are a whole bunch on Saint-Michel" and proceeded to give us directions.
Jeff and I paid up and headed down to Saint-Michel. Once we got there, we walked up and down the street, but couldn't find any club, let alone a gay club. So, we stopped someone for directions.
"Excusez-moi? Do you know of any gay clubs in this area?"
"Yes, they're on Saint-Michel"
"Ok, thanks."
We once again walked up and down Boulevard Saint-Michel. By this point, I was getting tired and a little bit cranky and frustrated at Jeff for not doing his research. We stopped another person for directions.
"Excusez-moi? We're looking for a gay club?"
"There's some on Saint-Michel."
"Do you know what it's called in particular, or where on Saint-Michel it is?
"No, I'm sorry," with a sympathetic look.
What was this? We were on Saint-Michel. Where was this ghost gay club that everyone kept talking about? I took out my phone and consulted google, which also told me Saint-Michel. Was this some conspiracy between the French citizens and Google to turn gays off to the city of Paris? Finally, I said to Jeff, we need to find some gay men and get them to show us. Now, this is harder than you think. The "Gay or European" game was invented for a reason. It's really tough to tell the difference sometimes. But, when a couple of men walked toward us with their hands touching, I knew we had found our saviors. Unfortunately, they didn't speak English.
Since one of them had a more Mediterranean look, I took a shot and asked if they spoke Spanish. And the one that I had pegged for a Spaniard said, "Ah! Si!" So, in my broken Spanish, I said, "Estamos buscando por un club donde...um, los muchachos se gustan los muchachos." The Spaniard laughed and then translated to French what I had asked for his boyfriend, who also started laughing. Their answer: Saint-Michel.
After forty-five minutes of walking, Jeff and I decided to call it a night and go back to the hotel. We hailed a cab and started driving back. The cab turned onto a street called Rue du Temple. I looked out the cab window...men were coming out of the clubs onto Rue du Temple in droves. Men holding hands, men making out with each other on the street, men skipping to each other. I'm not being offensive. There were literally men skipping to each other on Rue du Temple. The irony was too much for us and we decided to keep heading home and try Rue du Temple the next night, which we did.
The next night, we did have a blast on Rue du Temple. A bouncer stopped us at the door and warned us that we were heading into a gay club, which I thought was nice, as he didn't want an unassuming American couple to walk into something that they weren't ready for. Both Jeff and I yelled excitedly, "We know!" and walked into a soapy naked guy in a shower with a bunch of men crowded around him watching. I met some boys from Chicago and danced with them for most of the night. And later I had a very nice conversation with the naked man in the shower. His name was Jean-Baptiste and he was in grad school.
So, did we ever solve the Case of the Ghost Gay Club at Saint-Michel, Nancy Drew? Well, although we thought we were walking down Saint-Michel, we were actually walking on the street perpendicular to it. So while we were hitting Saint-Michel at the corner, we weren't actually going down it. Mystery solved. Americans are dumb.
Wednesday, May 7, 2014
Tales from France, Part II: The Tale of the Dutchman
Notwithstanding the misadventures in customs, I was so excited to be in Paris. I had never been before and on the way to hotel, I was out the window like a teen in a rom com during a music montage.
My friends were there for a work thing. Our first day, my friend, Jeff came back from his meeting and said to me, "There's a co-worker of mine here that is soooooooo your type. You are going to love him." I had already been familiar with some of Jeff's co-workers, having attended holiday party/happy hours with him in the past, but I had never met this one, the Dutchman, since he's based in the Netherlands. That night, we met up with all of the co-workers for dinner. I could feel Jeff's "I-told-you-so" gaze on me, when I shook the Dutchman's hand in introduction and my eyes lit up. I believe that I stumbled a bit. It was mostly a blur. It was like meeting Conrad Birdie.
On the walk to the restaurant, I maneuvered my way next to the Dutchman and engaged him in conversation. When we got to the restaurant, I made sure that we were sitting next to each other. It would have been nice of me to sit next to my friend, Jeff, the one who had actually invited me to Paris, but this was not a time to be nice. I was on a mission. And when you're on a mission, you're rude.
During dinner, I laughed at all of the Dutchman's jokes. I made coy moves like touching his arm at times, sharing my food with him, tucking my hair behind my ear in what I hoped was an adorable fashion while praying that my fingers wouldn't get caught in my wind-blown knotty curls ruining the whole move. I conveniently ignored the other 11 people sitting at the table. The only time I looked away from the Dutchman's eyes was in confusion when the restaurant started inexplicably blasting Blurred Lines on their speaker system while they brought out a cake with sparklers on it for Jeff's birthday. Oh, did I mention that I was ignoring my friend who invited me to Paris on his birthday? I'm not proud of my behavior, but I knew that Jeff, as a true friend and wingman, would understand.
The Dutchman seemed charmed and as engaged with me as I was with him. I learned later that the whole table was interested in watching this romance bloom. At one point, the Dutchman asked me, "So what is the story with you and Jeff?" Now, here was the dilemma. Jeff isn't in the closet by any means, but he also doesn't broadcast details about his personal life. And this is not just a work thing. I'm one of his best friends, and will only learn about a new guy that he's dating about three to four months into the relationship and that's only if I ask, "Are you seeing anyone?" I didn't want to "out" him. But, I didn't want the Dutchman to think that there was any possibility that Jeff and I had a thing, or that he would be interfering with any form of relationship.
So, I said, "Jeff and I are just friends."
The Dutchman looked skeptical, "A friend who brings another friend on a work trip to Paris?"
Oy..
So, I said, "I'm not exactly Jeff's type," with a meaningful look.
The Dutchman got it right away, looked surprised for a moment, and then his face relaxed, "Well, that's good news for me, then," he said.
After dinner, everyone hung out in the hotel bar for a while, and then one by one decided to go to bed. The Dutchman and I figuring that the night was still young and so were we, decided to go out on the town. We ended up chatting in a cozy bar near the Champ Elysees, and on the walk home, he finally kissed me. It was incredibly romantic. He was a little bit concerned that he was being unprofessional, until I told him that Jeff had essentially pimped him out.
There's nothing funny about this story or weird about the Dutchman. It was a night of romance and just what I needed to get my mind off of Coop. It was a perfect night. Here's the Dutchman's version of it:
"I drank a lot of wine in Paris and ended up hooking up with one of my co-worker's friends. The end."
Stay tuned for Part III and my experiences in Gay Paris...literally, I hung out in a bunch of gay clubs in Paris and I'm going to tell you about it.
My friends were there for a work thing. Our first day, my friend, Jeff came back from his meeting and said to me, "There's a co-worker of mine here that is soooooooo your type. You are going to love him." I had already been familiar with some of Jeff's co-workers, having attended holiday party/happy hours with him in the past, but I had never met this one, the Dutchman, since he's based in the Netherlands. That night, we met up with all of the co-workers for dinner. I could feel Jeff's "I-told-you-so" gaze on me, when I shook the Dutchman's hand in introduction and my eyes lit up. I believe that I stumbled a bit. It was mostly a blur. It was like meeting Conrad Birdie.
On the walk to the restaurant, I maneuvered my way next to the Dutchman and engaged him in conversation. When we got to the restaurant, I made sure that we were sitting next to each other. It would have been nice of me to sit next to my friend, Jeff, the one who had actually invited me to Paris, but this was not a time to be nice. I was on a mission. And when you're on a mission, you're rude.
During dinner, I laughed at all of the Dutchman's jokes. I made coy moves like touching his arm at times, sharing my food with him, tucking my hair behind my ear in what I hoped was an adorable fashion while praying that my fingers wouldn't get caught in my wind-blown knotty curls ruining the whole move. I conveniently ignored the other 11 people sitting at the table. The only time I looked away from the Dutchman's eyes was in confusion when the restaurant started inexplicably blasting Blurred Lines on their speaker system while they brought out a cake with sparklers on it for Jeff's birthday. Oh, did I mention that I was ignoring my friend who invited me to Paris on his birthday? I'm not proud of my behavior, but I knew that Jeff, as a true friend and wingman, would understand.
The Dutchman seemed charmed and as engaged with me as I was with him. I learned later that the whole table was interested in watching this romance bloom. At one point, the Dutchman asked me, "So what is the story with you and Jeff?" Now, here was the dilemma. Jeff isn't in the closet by any means, but he also doesn't broadcast details about his personal life. And this is not just a work thing. I'm one of his best friends, and will only learn about a new guy that he's dating about three to four months into the relationship and that's only if I ask, "Are you seeing anyone?" I didn't want to "out" him. But, I didn't want the Dutchman to think that there was any possibility that Jeff and I had a thing, or that he would be interfering with any form of relationship.
So, I said, "Jeff and I are just friends."
The Dutchman looked skeptical, "A friend who brings another friend on a work trip to Paris?"
Oy..
So, I said, "I'm not exactly Jeff's type," with a meaningful look.
The Dutchman got it right away, looked surprised for a moment, and then his face relaxed, "Well, that's good news for me, then," he said.
After dinner, everyone hung out in the hotel bar for a while, and then one by one decided to go to bed. The Dutchman and I figuring that the night was still young and so were we, decided to go out on the town. We ended up chatting in a cozy bar near the Champ Elysees, and on the walk home, he finally kissed me. It was incredibly romantic. He was a little bit concerned that he was being unprofessional, until I told him that Jeff had essentially pimped him out.
There's nothing funny about this story or weird about the Dutchman. It was a night of romance and just what I needed to get my mind off of Coop. It was a perfect night. Here's the Dutchman's version of it:
"I drank a lot of wine in Paris and ended up hooking up with one of my co-worker's friends. The end."
Stay tuned for Part III and my experiences in Gay Paris...literally, I hung out in a bunch of gay clubs in Paris and I'm going to tell you about it.
Monday, May 5, 2014
Tales from France, Part I: Le Straight Par-ee
I've had a busy couple of months. Started a book club. Got promoted at that attorney gig that I do in my spare time. Went all Fatal Attraction on Coop by cutting up a Christmas/birthday gift and leaving it on his doorstep after he asked if he could have it back. Welcomed the Sox back to Fenway on a winter(?) day:
Seriously, someone needs to have a talk with Mother Nature.
Mel: Mother Nature, I found snow in my backyard on April 15. Where did you get it?
Mother Nature: Mel, I...
Mel [interrupting] Answer me! Who taught you how to do this stuff?
Mother Nature: YOU, all right!!! I learned it by watching you!!!!
Ok, what is happening?
Anyway, perhaps one of the most exciting things that I did recently was take a trip to Paris. I briefly mentioned a fling with a Dutchman, but I didn't really get into any of my Parisian adventures. They started from the moment that I got off the plane...
If you've ever stood in line in customs waiting to enter a foreign country, you will be able to relate to this feeling. For some reason, even if you're not smuggling anything in, or doing anything remotely illegal, you always feel like you're doing something wrong when you stand in line at customs. For me, personally, I always draw a blank at the questions that the border officer asks me. All of the sudden, I can't remember where I flew from, where I'm going, how long am I staying... I once answered "three days" when I knew I was staying for seven and then corrected myself right away, and then went back to three days for some reason so that I wouldn't seem suspicious. So, already I was very uncomfortable. It didn't help matters that the customs area was being kept at a balmy 101 degrees, that's 38 degrees Celsius.
After standing about 20 minutes in line, one of the customs officials announced something in French, opened up one of the ropes and a bunch of people went to a lineless area on the other side of the room. I'm not sure if you've noticed that a major difference between men and women is that men have a tendency to act first and think later. So, as you might imagine, even though the men in the line that we were in didn't speak French and had no way of understanding the announcement, they all saw a shorter line and similar to what happens when they see power tools or sausages, all of the men (including my two male friends) made a mad dash for the open rope, with their respective women trailing behind in a chorus of "What did that announcement say though?" "Is this line just for the French citizens?" "Why didn't they announce that in English?" And sure enough after standing in that line for 20 minutes, and making it toward the front, we learned that that line was for European Union passports only. So, back to the original line (now about twice as long as it was before) we went.
By this point, we had been in customs for 40 minutes. I was sweating bullets from the heat and also because I had convinced myself that while we were standing in line, someone had planted 1200 grams of cocaine in my suitcase and I would be thrown into a foreign prison, which in my imagination was the Thai prison in Brokedown Palace for some reason. With all of this happening, I began to feel a bit nauseous. Now, I haven't thrown up since I was five years old. Not from stomach bugs, not from food poisoning, not from car sickness, not from too much tequila. But, somehow I knew that this might be the day that my Seinfeldian vomit streak may end. After about 30 more minutes of waiting in line (we had been in customs for a total of 70 minutes at this time), I had finally made it to the front of the line. I had visions of the cool air of a Charles De Gaulle baggage claim carousel whisking by my face. I thought to myself, you just have to hang in there a little bit longer and this will all be over. My friend, Jeff, went through the customs line. My friend, Eric, went through the customs line. Just when it was about to be my turn, I knew that I couldn't wait any longer. I ran out of the customs line for the bathroom, too sick to even worry about the perceived guilt of racing to the restroom just when I'm about to be questioned by border patrol.
I will spare you the gory details. Let's skip ahead a few minutes, when I emerged from the bathroom feeling much better but really bummed that my vomit clock had been reset to zero. I started to go to the front of the line, hoping that someone nice would let me back into my spot, since I didn't know if I could stay in that room of hellfire for another 45 minutes, and I was concerned that Jeff and Eric, having gone through the doors without me and not having cell phones that worked internationally, would be worried that I had been arrested by the border police. As I approached the front of the line, a female real-life version of a cartoonish French maitre d, complete with a sneer...and probably a mustache, I don't really remember, stopped me with an "Excusez moi, Madame." and pointed to the end of the line. I pleaded with her. "Didn't you just see me run by here? I had to go to the restroom. I was sick." Her nose wriggled with disgust at my words and she said merely, "Please go to the line."
At this point, between ruining my vomit streak, worrying that my friends would leave the airport without me, and dealing with snooty French TSA equivalents, it all became too much for me and I burst into tears. Even the humorous thought that airport employees are as miserable in France as they are in the US and of the possibility of some kind of special international camp where all airport employees go to learn the basics of How to Be a Dick and How Not to Help People didn't cheer me up. Needless to say, everyone else in line (save the one guy who looked extremely uncomfortable and probably has a similar reaction when any woman cries) looked at me sympathetically. After 30 more minutes in line, I arrived at the front again and tearfully answered the border agent's questions without incident. As I passed through the electric doors, I heard a woman call out in a Southern accent, "We're praying for you, honey!" which made me feel really bad because these people probably thought that I was dealing with an actual crisis, not an imaginary one involving waiting in customs for an hour and a half with a brief intermission of throwup.
I found my friends waiting for me at the baggage claim and told them my tale of woe. They looked at me with compassion and an underlying not-so-subtle air of glee.
And so began my adventures in Paris. The trip got much MUCH better after this. And I will tell you all about it in my next post. Until then, au revoir!
Seriously, someone needs to have a talk with Mother Nature.
Mel: Mother Nature, I found snow in my backyard on April 15. Where did you get it?
Mother Nature: Mel, I...
Mel [interrupting] Answer me! Who taught you how to do this stuff?
Mother Nature: YOU, all right!!! I learned it by watching you!!!!
Ok, what is happening?
Anyway, perhaps one of the most exciting things that I did recently was take a trip to Paris. I briefly mentioned a fling with a Dutchman, but I didn't really get into any of my Parisian adventures. They started from the moment that I got off the plane...
If you've ever stood in line in customs waiting to enter a foreign country, you will be able to relate to this feeling. For some reason, even if you're not smuggling anything in, or doing anything remotely illegal, you always feel like you're doing something wrong when you stand in line at customs. For me, personally, I always draw a blank at the questions that the border officer asks me. All of the sudden, I can't remember where I flew from, where I'm going, how long am I staying... I once answered "three days" when I knew I was staying for seven and then corrected myself right away, and then went back to three days for some reason so that I wouldn't seem suspicious. So, already I was very uncomfortable. It didn't help matters that the customs area was being kept at a balmy 101 degrees, that's 38 degrees Celsius.
After standing about 20 minutes in line, one of the customs officials announced something in French, opened up one of the ropes and a bunch of people went to a lineless area on the other side of the room. I'm not sure if you've noticed that a major difference between men and women is that men have a tendency to act first and think later. So, as you might imagine, even though the men in the line that we were in didn't speak French and had no way of understanding the announcement, they all saw a shorter line and similar to what happens when they see power tools or sausages, all of the men (including my two male friends) made a mad dash for the open rope, with their respective women trailing behind in a chorus of "What did that announcement say though?" "Is this line just for the French citizens?" "Why didn't they announce that in English?" And sure enough after standing in that line for 20 minutes, and making it toward the front, we learned that that line was for European Union passports only. So, back to the original line (now about twice as long as it was before) we went.
By this point, we had been in customs for 40 minutes. I was sweating bullets from the heat and also because I had convinced myself that while we were standing in line, someone had planted 1200 grams of cocaine in my suitcase and I would be thrown into a foreign prison, which in my imagination was the Thai prison in Brokedown Palace for some reason. With all of this happening, I began to feel a bit nauseous. Now, I haven't thrown up since I was five years old. Not from stomach bugs, not from food poisoning, not from car sickness, not from too much tequila. But, somehow I knew that this might be the day that my Seinfeldian vomit streak may end. After about 30 more minutes of waiting in line (we had been in customs for a total of 70 minutes at this time), I had finally made it to the front of the line. I had visions of the cool air of a Charles De Gaulle baggage claim carousel whisking by my face. I thought to myself, you just have to hang in there a little bit longer and this will all be over. My friend, Jeff, went through the customs line. My friend, Eric, went through the customs line. Just when it was about to be my turn, I knew that I couldn't wait any longer. I ran out of the customs line for the bathroom, too sick to even worry about the perceived guilt of racing to the restroom just when I'm about to be questioned by border patrol.
I will spare you the gory details. Let's skip ahead a few minutes, when I emerged from the bathroom feeling much better but really bummed that my vomit clock had been reset to zero. I started to go to the front of the line, hoping that someone nice would let me back into my spot, since I didn't know if I could stay in that room of hellfire for another 45 minutes, and I was concerned that Jeff and Eric, having gone through the doors without me and not having cell phones that worked internationally, would be worried that I had been arrested by the border police. As I approached the front of the line, a female real-life version of a cartoonish French maitre d, complete with a sneer...and probably a mustache, I don't really remember, stopped me with an "Excusez moi, Madame." and pointed to the end of the line. I pleaded with her. "Didn't you just see me run by here? I had to go to the restroom. I was sick." Her nose wriggled with disgust at my words and she said merely, "Please go to the line."
At this point, between ruining my vomit streak, worrying that my friends would leave the airport without me, and dealing with snooty French TSA equivalents, it all became too much for me and I burst into tears. Even the humorous thought that airport employees are as miserable in France as they are in the US and of the possibility of some kind of special international camp where all airport employees go to learn the basics of How to Be a Dick and How Not to Help People didn't cheer me up. Needless to say, everyone else in line (save the one guy who looked extremely uncomfortable and probably has a similar reaction when any woman cries) looked at me sympathetically. After 30 more minutes in line, I arrived at the front again and tearfully answered the border agent's questions without incident. As I passed through the electric doors, I heard a woman call out in a Southern accent, "We're praying for you, honey!" which made me feel really bad because these people probably thought that I was dealing with an actual crisis, not an imaginary one involving waiting in customs for an hour and a half with a brief intermission of throwup.
I found my friends waiting for me at the baggage claim and told them my tale of woe. They looked at me with compassion and an underlying not-so-subtle air of glee.
And so began my adventures in Paris. The trip got much MUCH better after this. And I will tell you all about it in my next post. Until then, au revoir!
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