The hotel in question was fortuitously only two blocks away from where my French friend, Pierre, had recently moved. He is just as French as his name: consistently semi-pouting, wears t-shirts that are just a tiny bit too constricting, and, as Julia and I found out later, can be majorly melodramatic. (After holding hands for hours, he tearily proclaimed to her later that evening, “You don’t like me enough!” prompting/begging her to say just how much she J’adore-d him.)
Pierre promised us an amazing night out, so we met him at his apartment first. He offered us each a glass of French wine (typical), then whipped out his portable turn-tables. Julia’s eyes widened with lust: if there’s one thing she can’t resist, it’s a DJ, especially a semi-cute, French DJ, since she, too, is also fluent en Français. An hour or so passed of this DJ nonsense, during which Pierre’s forehead beaded with sweat and I was sure I’d have to douse Julia with my Cabernet to cool her and her hormones down: I, on the other hand, passed the time by playing Words with Friends on my phone with my mother. Finally, after both of them sufficiently chilled off, and I had played “JOWL” for ninety-six points, Pierre steered us in the direction of a supposedly fabulous club.
As we walked in, Pierre slung his arm around Julia. “Uh oh,” I thought, as she snuggled into his armpit and giggled. “Not again.” We’d been there for about five seconds and already I was sensing my imminent invisibility. We went to order drinks, and when Julia said “Merci,” instead of thank you, and I knew for sure she was definitely done for: already two drinks in, she is tiny and cute and after just looking at a bottle of champagne she practically needs to have her stomach pumped, and, oddly, also starts speaking in French. Ten minutes later she was in full-on French mode, babbling away like we were in some cafe nibbling on croissants, and was dancing on a couch with Pierre, hands in the air. I, meanwhile, sat on the edge of the neighboring table, her shoes in my lap, a drink in my hand, and wondering why it was I continually don’t see these types of situations steamrolling my way. Ugh.
Some nearby Arabs offered me to “Sit on us our laps!” but their copious amounts of facial and exposed chest hair was slightly disconcerting, so I cordially declined. Soon after, Pierre’s best buddy rolled in: if Pierre was super French, then this kid, Claude, was basically wearing a beret, a horizontal striped shirt, and carrying a baguette. I was initially enthused about his presence: finally, a sidekick! My wingperson duties had long since become utterly unnecessary since Julia and Pierre were now stroking each other’s face and saying “Oui” a lot, so I was happy to have someone to chat with, even if he was exceedingly awkward and his English was pretty much on par with that of the lady in the restroom who hands you towels and breath mints (as in, non-existent). Le sigh.
But it turned out Claude had less than nothing to say for himself, and just frowned and crossed his arms the whole time, leaving me to frequently check the time on my phone, like it was last period on a Friday in high school. By three o’clock, Pierre and Julia wanted to leave, so we filed out, alcohol secreting from all our pores. On the street, everything smelled like sea air, perspiration, and tortillas, and we walked back down Collins Ave. toward our respective beds. Pierre and Julia trailed behind, speaking in French so quickly it sounded as if a Muzzy cassette was on rewind. This, of course, left me oh-so-luckily with the sulky Claude whose grumpiness was growing exponentially as his friend and mine were becoming entangled in what would become a torrid two-day love affair. Claude mumbled something about guys, and how he was so different, and how, subsequently, the French are so different than Americans. “Oh, please,” I said, already bored of Claude and his whininess, “All boys are exactly the same.”
Let’s be real for a second here: all dudes are the same. They all play the same games, are all thickheaded jerks when it comes to interpersonal relationships, and are, for the most part, dudes. Fairly, however, I followed up my statement stating that all girls are the same, too: totally crazy, overly emotional, and expect too much from the bonehead men we stupidly choose to date. This, of course, was not good enough for Claude, who launched into a tirade about what a horrible person I was. “Why would you say such a thing?” he gasped in his French accent. “Moi? The same? As everyone else? How could you! How awful!” “Come on,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Don’t be such a baby.” “A baby!” he gasped again. “I am no baby!” Poor, innocent Claude grumbled and groused on and on, as if no one had ever informed him that some--no, most--guys are schmucks; I might as well have said his mother was a prostitute and I used the French flag as a bathmat.
Toward the end of our walk, Julia and Pierre wandered off together and Claude stormed away in a huff of Frenchness, still personally affronted by my blanket statement about guys. He disappeared around the corner, and I was thankful to be rid of him, not to mention Julia and Pierre’s Oui-ing. I walked the last block to our seedy hotel alone, and as I climbed the concrete steps, I saw someone whizzing around the corner on a rickety racing bike. As the rider streaked by me, I realized it was Claude, having evidently rounded the block to pick up his bike. Our eyes met and his front wheel hit the curb. He went literally flying through the air like some sort of Cirque du Soleil act, and came to smushing stop in the middle of the street. I couldn’t help it: I exploded with laughter as he lay there like a discarded sock monkey. But after only a second, he got up, brushed himself off, threw me a look of death, and pedaled away into the Miami dawn. Then he friended me on Facebook twenty minutes later. So see? All boys are the same.
This is how I roll while in Miami.
Bah! You are l'riot! And I must say: after my personal brief encounter with the French kind, they *are* all the same. Le sigh indeed.
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