Paris Is Burning
French men are built differently.
Picture this. I’m sitting in front of the Notre Dame cathedral, untangling a pair of earphones. I’ve been doing this for approximately twenty minutes when a man walks up to me. He’s wearing a suit, he has very blue eyes, and he’s speaking in French. I apologise, as I have many, many times in the couple of days I’ve been in Paris, saying I don’t speak the language.
Him: Ahh, you are English?
Me: (quickly) No, I’m Irish.
He then proceeds to tell me that he was eating his lunch in a park opposite, and he noticed me and wanted to introduce himself. I really liked your vibe, he says (must have a wired headphone kink) and I was hoping to get your number, I’d love to take you out sometime. The fact that he managed to shoot his shot in the wild without seeming like a total creep and was totally relaxed about it was the hottest thing ever and I wish more people would do the same. Truly, an Irish man could never? (No shade, I’m an Irish woman and I also could never lol)
But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let me rewind. Last month, I made the last-minute decision to up sticks and spend June in Paris. All material for the inevitable memoir, I joke to friends, which isn’t a joke at all, of course. Everything is copy – you have been warned.
My plans for my time in the city are as follows:
Eat great food.
Look at beautiful art.
Hang out with interesting people.
“Ah,” one Parisian I’m talking to on Hinge says when I outline this itinerary. “All the things Ireland is not known for, non?”
Like?! The fucking audacity!! You’re not beating the rude allegations any time soon, my guy.
Anyway, I packed my bags – poorly as it turns out, because the weather has been uncharacteristically cold for June and my wardrobe choices were basically chic sundress + ugly sandals + large sunglasses –, I submitted the first draft of my new novel to my editor and agent with the postscript DO NOT REPLY UNTIL JULY, I DO NOT WANT TO HEAR FROM EITHER OF YOU RIGHT NOW, and landed in Paris on Sunday. That night, I met with S by the Champs de Mars. “There’s the Eiffel Tower!” I exclaimed, pointing up at it. “Yes,” he replied, looking slightly worried he’s on a date with a simpleton. He had arranged a boat ride down the river Seine and afterwards, we