My game plan for this article was to use my romantic escapades in Paris to explain French dating etiquette to everyone back in boring old Hanover. The only problem is, a month into my FSP, I have literally no escapades to report. In fact, although a couple of FSP-ers have gone on dates, there are still no sordid affairs to write back. That's right, I'm not the only social failure.
So at this point, I'm questioning the wisdom of "Anastasia" (potentially the world's greatest animated film) which claimed that Paris holds the key to your heart. Someone PLEASE tell me how I get this key. The rules around the dating scene here are unspoken and still mysterious, so instead I'll tell you a couple of highlights of the rules I HAVE figured out, because French etiquette is very specific when it's telling you what not to do.1.Don't leave your hands in your lap during dinner unless you want people to think you're touching yourself under the table, one concerned host mother explained. (Save it for dessert.)2.Don't eat on the go the French have a lot of respect for food, and (other than late-night crpes) people generally aren't snacking on the street. Also, no one else sees the benefits of drinking wine out of plastic bottles on the Metro.3.Don't speak English or wear anything other than black if you want to pass unnoticed through Paris streets. But I'm sure my convincing French and subtle American backpack* tricked all of the pickpockets at Montmartre.
**pink North Face with my pledge term Delta still attached
I can follow these rules and seem more French, but despite my best attempts, the closest I've come to romance here was a particularly affectionate cuddle sesh in the "honeymoon suite" of a hostel in Tours (WHAT UP BARCELONERS).
The rules of love are different here. Not too long ago, characters in French drama expressed undying love with the painful understatement: "I don't hate you." But outbursts of emotion seem to be few and far between; if you hear laughing on the Metro, it's probably other Dartmouth students, not natives.
On the other hand, some facets of Paris are oversexualized. I see PDAs everywhere in the clubs (duh), waiting in line for the clubs and even in the library at the Centre Pompidou (Paris' version of the stacks?). Walking through Montmartre, seedy sex shops flank colorful cabarets, but I'm not exactly looking for "Girls of Paris."
I've tried to play the game, hitting up English-speaking bars, Eurotrash clubs and everything in between with equally disappointing results. (On that note, we're still hunting for a bar with an A-ct crowd and Keystone prices.) Where are the cute and dangerous French boys my mom warned me about?
I'm thinking I just don't understand the rules. Yes, I speak French or at least a damn fine Franglish but my professors have yet to explain the language of love. Before leaving for Paris, my friends presented me with a handy slang dictionary entitled "Hide this French Book," so I now possess the crucial skills necessary to order lemonade-beer. "Lady Marmalade" taught me years ago how to ask someone to come home with me, but I have yet to use that phrase either.
I still have hope for my chances at love, though. Walking back from the Metro last week, I saw a woman crouched down on the sidewalk. The sketchiness of the situation outweighed my curiosity at the time, but the following morning, I spotted what the woman had been doing: writing a chalk message that read, "Si tu m'aimes, RVEIL-TOI!" (Translation: "If you love me, wake up.")
I'm still looking for a ride on the back of someone's Peugeot and a kiss beneath the Eiffel Tower, but now I have proof that there is definitely passion here! And did I mention that I can see the Eiffel Tower from the balcony from my room? Yeah, I guess I can wait to come home for a while. But I'll send you a postcard.
