So this one time I studied abroad and hung out in Paris for 3 months and got actual class credit for awesome things. Like staring at naked people while playing with charcoal and ink, speaking English with a bunch of hilarious French kids, and going to a chocolate festival. yes, that's right, a CHOCOLATE FESTIVAL. Featuring a fashion show of CHOCOLATE COUTURE. And it was delicious!
I got to make my own truffle, eat a shitton of free chocolate samples (it was like VegFest, but 100% chocolate). Anyway, after several hours of munching on cacao nibs and olive oil-infused chocolate with the occasional macaron au caramel beurre salé, I decided it was time for some Real Food. So naturally, I decided to get (vanilla!) ice cream (my food options were limited, but let's be real I would always choose ice cream).
My friends and I did not move at the same pace throughout this extravaganza (my spirit animal might be a sneaky tortoise who can't pass up a single sample and ingeniously outfitted her shell with an ice cream machine), so I strolled up to get my frozen and delicious treat by myself. As soon as I made eye contact with the young Frenchman behind the counter, we both grinned (I may have blushed!) and looked bashfully away. Now, my French is not perfect even at the best of times, and when my lips are busy smiling and my voice just wants to come out as laughter, things get even worse. I communicated what I wanted, une boule de la glace au vanille, and he avoided my eyes as he scooped, fighting a losing battle with his face and thus beaming unprofessionally. As he added a final touch, a whole (not sliced into sample sized morceaux) chocolate truffle, his manager, a matronly woman in her 50s, appeared, observed the bejeweled cone, and gave me a significantly raised eyebrow that clearly stated, "you are getting special treatment here, missy."
In a sweets- and Frenchboy-induced euphoria, I went off to find my crowd of non-tortoises and figure out how to get my new friend's number. I finally convinced my friend Andrea that what she most needed to make her happiness complete at that moment was ice cream, so we came up with a sort of game plan, and after spying on the booth until the manager disappeared as well as the other customers, we approached the target.
IRRELEVANT TANGENT:
As a side note, I felt then and feel now as I am writing this, that this is basically what a lot of middle school (and high school, especially if you go to a school where real boys don't exist) is like. Having feelings and watching your crush (or your friend's crush) from afar and whispering about how nervous you are and how cute they are and plotting grand schemes to make them fall in love with you and maybe or maybe not actually carrying them out. Or maybe that was just me. Or more specifically some of my compatriots to whom the term "boy-crazy" has occasionally been applied.
ANYWAY, we went back, she got ice cream, he and I couldn't look at each other or our faces would have split in half, and every time he turned around or bent to scoop more ice cream, she whispered intelligent things I could say to keep the conversation going. (THANK YOU Andrea!) Very intelligent things, like asking his favorite flavor of ice cream, which was actually perfect because it was mine too, coconut. So he gave me a business card with the addresses of all the store's locations around Paris that sell coconut ice cream. And we left.
So, armed with the business card, we marched away, when suddenly I decided to carpe that diem and marched back to speak to him directly. He was bemused to see me again, and I said something along the lines of (I was nervous and French was hard that day, so it was pretty rough), "I am going to go eat that ice cream, do you want to eat it with me?" And he (1) SMILED (duh), (2) said "well if you come to the store then I don't know why not" (!!!!) and (3) CIRCLED THE ONE HE WORKED AT SO I COULD FIND HIM THERE. Not quite a telephone number, but overall a success. Definitely more successful than the first time I was direct about asking someone out, which resulted in a no and some bad decision dinosaurs, although that time I did have their telephone number.
And no, I have not gone to the store to eat coconut ice cream with him, for a host of reasons, actually. (1) It's far, and not actually in Paris proper, so transportation is less convenient (aka I'm lazy). (2) In retrospect and after consulting with other people who were not wearing rose-colored glasses, he may be a bit too young. (snatch!) (3) I am busy, with things I can't even stop doing long enough to blerg about, let ALONE chase dreamy French boys through the ice cream shops of Paris!
...and here I am, in all my post-no-rejection glory:
...exciting, no? As a comment on this photo on facebook reads, "look at me. no wonder he said yes. :P"
I mean, we've already been over my narcissistic tendencies, so I might as well let it all out now, right?
love,
CLARE the ice cream tortoise who goes for it, apparently!
Love this photo of you!
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