13 Dec 2012

Men and Montana

It's 7.06pm and the metro is packed with agitated people.  I become ensconced in the masses who begin to push the capacity of the train as well as my lungs and I feel my new Longchamp bag being tugged on as I'm violently jammed into a nonexistent space.  In my other hand is a plastic bag filled to the brim with lettuce and other salady ingredients.  I'm praying that the tomatoes don't burst their juices under the pressure and that the cucumber won't break through the seal and prod someone.  Oh the endless possibilities.  I realise my direct line of vision is a woman's assets and there are no bars close enough to hold onto.  She does the typically french "ooh la la" as she expresses her aggravation at being squished, explaining how the whole thing is "fou".  I catch sight of a young man who apparently finds this quite amusing and watch as he sniggers, which instantly sets me off.  There's something so contagious about a laugh.  The nervous giggle which comes about when a teacher shouts at you, when someone is telling you a sad story about their pet, or when you're stuck in an elevator with 13 hysterical people.  Yes, the nervous giggle which always makes you feel uncomfortable, but the more you concentrate on keeping a straight face, the harder it is.  We've all been there.

I catch his eyes burning into my face as he grins and without thinking I smile back at him.  Rule no.1 - never reciprocate the smile; it only encourages them.  Having said that, he was rather handsome so maybe this little eye-lock could have turned into coffee.  Rule no. 2 - never, ever engage in conversation.  This just ruins the moment (and let's face it - if you're going to meet your future spouse/boyf/lover, the metro isn't the classiest of places for your first rencontre).  Instead, I suggest you engage in utter silence, holding the stare for a little longer than is polite, or normal.  What else are you supposed to do when it's that crowded?  The ceiling is only so interesting up to a point.  However, I do struggle with this little charade, worried that the nervous giggle might come rolling back which is never worth the colour it turns my cheeks.  Thankfully we didn't get off at the same stop, but don't think I didn't notice his little eyebrow movement.

There's something about taking the metro which makes me uneasy.  It seems to be the preferred hotspot for creepy men and the ultimate place for dodgy encounters.  Another culprit on the metro once took it upon himself to laugh every time I laughed, mirroring each "haha" that rippled from my mouth.  I was simply chatting to a few friends of mine, sharing a few witty remarks, when he decided his hand would be put to better use on my shoulder.  I was a little disturbed.  But if you think that's bad, I won't mention the leg-humping wonder who blockaded me on the RER train to work one afternoon.  He was probably old enough to be my grandfather.  After what I believed to be an accidental elbow-into-breasts session which lasted for five minutes (granted it was quite busy), I decided to turn around to avoid such close interaction.  On second thoughts, I wish I'd stayed with my chest facing him because my leg has never felt so molested in my life.  And don't even get me started on the arse grabbing.  Should have brought my pepper spray.

So far, I am yet to meet a French man I would consider taking home to meet the parentals (don't sound too surprised..) A recent encounter with another French man who was walking past a bar I was standing outside went something like this: "I like your dress. Would you like me to French kiss you?"  As flattered as I was by this generous and spontaneous offer, the idea of being kissed by a man probably 15 years my senior who thought it was acceptable to ask an innocent female such as yours truly to embrace him on the street was rather shocking.  I politely declined, explaining how my ''petit-ami'' in the UK wouldn't be too happy about it, to which he replied: "so? your English boyfriend doesn't know how to French kiss you.  Let me show you''.  I stuck my tongue out, wiggled it around a bit in the air, and walked back into the bar.

Whilst rocking out to tunes in the aforementioned bar which had an underground cave-like club, I was approached by a young man who very politely asked me if he was allowed to talk to me.  I was confused as to why he was asking for my permission since I'm perfectly used to the bum-pinching, leg groping men who frequent clubs in England.  However, I approved his request nonetheless and waited to see what he was so eager to share with me.  As soon as a friend of mine came to my rescue, the Frenchie decided it would be a fabulous idea to set up his friend with my friend.  I could see where this was going so promptly explained how we both had boyfriends.  The next second I turn around and he's nowhere to be seen.  I shrug and continue busting my moves until I feel someone pushing me.  Next minute, little Frenchie is hitting on and "French kissing" another lady.  Jealous much.

Watch this space!


1 comment:

  1. Now that made laugh good. Lol . And your plastic bag thing would've made a good ratatouille a good French recepy ... ;-). any way boy maners are so ... Well hum..