Arriving in Paris

SSG's French Boyfriend #1 should NOT have been a driver.  SSG's French Boyfriend #1 should have been a model.  A model of mens underwear.  Or Speedos.  With water running down his chest as he pulled himself out of a swimming pool.  

Is it getting hot in here?

So my first French boyfriend was actually not French at all, but from North Africa.  He was about 6'5, 200 pounds, shaved his head close to the scalp and was wearing one of SSG's favorite guy outfits--black dress pants and a white dress shirt.  And where that outfit could borderline waiter (or um, driver) he pulled it off like a business man walking confidently through any financial district in any major city.  And let's just say he looked VERY good from the back.  

It IS getting hot in here.  

Our relationship was short lived, however.  When I asked a question, something along the lines of "How long until we reach Montmartre?"  Which really meant "Can I please touch your chest because I can see the outline of it underneath your crisp white shirt and it looks like heaven." or "What about your biceps? Can I at least touch your biceps?"  He made it very clear that he didn't speak English.  But that was okay, because by that time the car had started and we pulled out of CDG and were on our way.  It was at that moment that it hit me.  

I was in PARIS.

I frantically grabbed my camera, pushed my nose against the window and waited.  I was poised and ready to take pictures of everything.  I waited for the cute wrought iron balconies, the women riding bikes with baskets and loaves of french bread tucked amongst bouquets of flowers, gorgeous shop windows and cafes with people engaged in heated debates over carafes of wine.  I waited while we passed factories.  Strip malls.  Ugly billboards.  And after about 20 minutes I almost asked if he was sure we were in France and that my pilot hadn't actually lapped the US for the last eight hours only to plant us firmly in Spokane. 

But then Speedo Model screeched to a stop in the middle of the street and when he jumped out of the car and ran to the back to grab my bag I took it as a sign that we had arrived.

He pulled away quickly from the curb and I was left standing alone underneath this sign.

   

I DID recognize the name of the street so that was reassuring.  

I pulled out my little red journal where I had written the code that would open this door.

 
The code worked and I started feeling more confident.

The instructions said to walk through the courtyard, find Building B, go up a flight of stairs and that it was the first apartment on the right.

So I did. 

And I rang the bell, smiling from ear to ear, waiting for the Bobs to answer so we could scream and have our reunion.  They didn't answer right away, so I rang the bell again.  I had been traveling for over 14 hours and my bags were getting heavy.  It was only 8 a.m. Paris time.  On a Saturday.  Maybe they were still asleep and didn't hear me?  I rang the bell again.

And that was when I heard a very annoyed voice, that was decidedly none of the Bobs, come from inside the apartment:  "OUI?!?!"

"Oh!"  I stammered.  "Pardonez moi, Madame!  Um ... wrong ... oh ... no ... apart-e-ment" I tried to recover.  Mortified and wanting to run and hide like I used to when I was eight and doorbell ditched neighbors with my friends, I turned quickly down the hallway.

And that's when I came face to face with these:

And while I tried to remember if the English translation of the French word premier meant top, or first, I trudged up another flight of stairs, rang the first door on the right and PRAYED that it meant first.

I heard someone coming.  I waited while I heard about fourteen locks being unlocked and held my breath as the door opened ...

To Be Continued

But!  Another snapshot of SSG's I Pod, Coco, while you wait!

I'm Alone & I'm an Easy Target (Foo Fighters)

All By Myself (Eric Carmen)

Anybody There (The Script)

Running on Faith (Eric Clapton)

Slow Dancing in a Burning Room (John Mayer)