Allessandra
I approach everything in life with a mixture of trepidation and reserve. I am equally balanced in this way and most of the time, I end up doing nothing. After a few weeks of corresponding with faceless people, I finally got to writing to a woman who had potential. She was older which is no problem for me as long as I follow one simple rule: I must be able to imagine making love to this woman for the rest of my life. If a profile does not pass this impossible criteria, I usually relent and book a date anyway. My days of frivolity have pretty much passed except in the cases in which it has not quite passed yet. Allessandra was a forty something, sophisticated and charming Parisian woman, not so recently divorced. She stated that she was looking for a partner, someone she shared a spark with that could accompany on her cultural pursuits. After a few curt messages, mostly about her spelling out how fun it was speaking English with me (which I appreciated of course, but we were not speaking, we were writing), we agreed to meet. We were originally going to meet at the Place De Victoire to make things easier but as is apt to happen when people invite cell phones into their lives, she kept sms-ing me to change the locale of the meet. This should have been my first clue. She sent more changes of location than a mountain climber giving his coordinates to a rescue mission. I finally caught up with her under the arches of the gardens behind the Academie Français. Here, I found to my amusement that she was taking part in a renegade tango movement. The idea was to set up tango dances all over Paris on the fly and inform all members of the location at the last minute so that by the time the happening was reported no by the general public or uncovered by the police, the spontaneous dance would be over. These people met all over town apparently and there were certainly a lot of Tango enthusiasts to be found. Oh to be a tango dancer capable of leading a woman. Alas for me this is an impossible goal, like my dream of being the heavy weight champion of the world. Allessandra spotted me coming from afar. As luck would have it, her spontaneous tango session was ending and people were already gathering in clusters as the music finished.
I greeted her with a warm and casual kiss on both cheeks, as cool and non - chalant as I could muster for an Anglo Saxon. The music started up again. We stood there as couples began to form. I had been placed in a situation I had not been in since high school. It was obvious that even at this early juncture in our relationship Allesandra wanted me to ask her to dance. My issue with this was twofold: it was a public tango, a dance that required some degree of previous knowledge before attempting. Doing an unprepared tango with out any instruction seemed to me like taking the controls of a jumbo jet, although admittedly, not with all the lives at stake. The subtext only deepened as the music progressed and makeshift couples drifted by us as we said nothing. I had failed my first test. Females can be so crafty. This was pre planned. Why do most women value dancing so highly? I have a feeling that most ladies would be willing to put up with most deficiencies from their man, if they were only a good dancer. Unfortunately, I view dancing, both watching and participating, the way I view waterboarding. Women, why is it so important that men dance? Why do you not covet, say other skills that signal a quality time in bed, like curling? Consequently, I resented her immediately for even putting me in this situation. The leader of the dance radicals hit stop on his small stereo. The music ended and the group now knew that tango time was at an end. We retreated to a nearby ledge where she could change her shoes.
“What a beautiful place for tango”. It wasn’t a lie. It really was a bit of a miracle to have witnessed something so unorthodox in a place like this. For a Latin country, public places in Paris are usually highly regimented. Spontaneous dance parties underneath classic archways that used to house royalty are usually a no go. This tango onslaught was a refreshing change. To our right were the immaculately kept grounds of the Palais Royal. Now that we had a little seclusion, I faced her and was finally free to inspect Allesandra’s qualities. She had a delicate face. The kind you observe in 18Th century paintings with small feminine features that were miniaturized. She had a doll’s face with a few wrinkles that looked to be more from time in the sun than from worry. She had auburn tinged curly red hair that she swept back in a bun. She was in excellent shape for forty three. She wore jeans that generously displayed a figure that she had obviously worked hard to protect. We found our own little spot away from the other couples. She put on her city shoes, oscillating her concentration between striking up a worthy conversation and getting comfortable. I asked her if she did things like this often.
“Things like this?”, she clarified. She put her dancing shoes into a small bag that looked like she had got it free as a swag bag for other gifts.
“Secret tango dancing”. Perhaps I was being too clever. “You didn’t tell me that you would be tango dancing;”
“Why? It disturbs you?”
“It doesn’t disturb me, no. I just didn’t expect that you would be dancing.”
“It’s just something I do. They tell us where to go on Facebook. Every two weeks it is in another place.”
“No, it’s great. It’s fine. It’s unique.”
“You seem unhappy.”
I didn’t have the heart to tell her that she had stumbled on to a great secret. I also resented how Allesandra seemed to display another trait that I hated: “saying exactly what was on her mind”.
We walked through the modern underground fountains hidden from view outside the Academie Français. She marveled how the architect had created a kind of concrete rover underneath our feet. I also was struck how I had never seen this before, though I had walked over its surface a dozen times. It made me wonder if there are underground brooks everywhere in Paris where just underneath an urban landscape, there is running water. This could be beneficial information in case of an apocalypse. I told Allesandra this.
“I understand American wit”, she added. I wasn’t sure if this was American wit, I thought to myself. This was more like crap talk. Her accent was neutral. It had none of the FRench embelishments or insecurities attached to it. She felt comfortable speaking English and this made things easier. It can often be quite a hudle speakig with someone who is forever expeting you to correct them.
We headed to one of those strategic cafés that was visible from all three corners of our intersection. While this was convenient, this is never the café that a French woman voluntarily agrees upon in advance, on the contrary, the café that is usually covertly hidden on a trendy side street, the one that I don’t know, is the one they tend to go for. To my surprise, Allesandra was fine with just having a coffee at the most obvious of places. We sat down inside after I argued, quite successfully, that if we stayed outside, we were likely to be abandoned there for half an hour at least. Choosing an outdoor table at a café in Paris is like opting for the local train over the express. You know that someone will come out to take your order eventually, but it may take a full shift. Oftentimes, when I was too broke to order a drink in my youth but wanted to have the experience of sitting at a café and watching the world go by, I would opt for an exterior table and no one was the wiser for it.
Inside, we ordered without too much fanfare. I believe Allesandra had a noisette. This coffee is Parisian way of ordering an espresso but making the barman’s life a little more difficult. We talked about the usual stories of our lives. Wrapping up thirty some odd years of experience (in her case, a little bit more) into a three minute presentation each. It was actually rather efficient. It was as if she had rehearsed this or that this was an experience she repeated over and over again. I learned that she had studied in America. She was at a college near Sacramento for at least a year when she was in her early twenties. I mentioned that not many people realize that Sacramento is the capital of California. She said she still had trouble believing it. It seemed to have been a positive experience for her. She spoke of wanting to return as she had been young but it made her want to teach English in Paris which is what she did for a living.
“This is partly why I called you”, she interjected at some point in our presentations. I would like to meet more Americans. I love talking with Americans.”
I did not know this at the time but most Parisians looking for dates with Anglo guys like me are in fact far more interested in getting a free conversation lesson than in serious romantic attachment. English speaking partners are rare in Paris and therefore somewhat of a commodity. But this was a lesson I would be wiser to later. And in fact, I couldn’t really be sure is this was indeed the case for Alessandra. I had read on her profile that she was divorced and of course, being a guy always eager to delve into other people’s misery and misfortune, I secretly found myself wanting to get into these intricacies. But I did not have the courage to ask her on our first date. Instead, our first meeting was light and brief. Women on first encounters always have some place else to go, a preordained meeting, a doctor’s appointment, anything to avoid the perception of having free time on their hands. Just once I would like to meet a woman who comes to these things and says:
“You know, I want to talk about we’re from and all that, but I also have a bottle of Jose Cuervo tequila that I just have to get through.” I would not hold it against her, I swear.
We split the bill and I ended up slowly walking her to the metro. On the way home, she wrote me a text informing me of almost every cultural event and exhibition that was going on in the next fortnight in Paris. It felt half like she actually cared about me and half as if she was working for the mayor of Paris. We agreed to another rendezvous. It would be a movie this time and we could meet a little before the show so that we had time to talk. Perhaps then I could ask her something a little more personal than the controversy of California’s capital city.
Did you know that most Parisian women have a cinema card? I now know this. It’s a subscription card that allows you to see as many movies as you want. If you see two movies, it more than pays for the twenty euros you spend. The only trouble is that it compels its user to be compulsive cinema goer out of necessity to get one’s money’s worth. It also makes the act of choosing a movie for said devotee virtually impossible. Whatever you propose, they have seen it all already, which was the case with Allesandra. We decided to meet for a walk first. The plan was to meet at the Odeon statue at the Carrefour. We would then slowly wander across the bridges towards the Place de Chatelet and eventually find ourselves in the cinema territory of Les Halles. The Odeon statue is the default meeting point in Paris, where right now, at this very moment, dozens of young and men and women are waiting for their counterpart to arrive. Young ladies sit on the edge of the statue at its base and look at their watch. Young men hold the top of the staircase waiting for their sweethearts to come up the escalator like in some major dramatic scene. It is rather charming and old fashioned in its way. Sometimes, I think I should strike up a conversation with whoever has been forgotten.
When a man arrives late for a rendezvous, especially when this meeting is to take place in a public place for all to scrutinize, the female in question, if she has arrived promptly, usually sends a text to the male to inform him that she has indeed arrived. This is a warning. It is not a statement of fact. It means: “I’m the one that’s supposed to be fashionably late, asshole! Don’t leave me hanging!” On this particular occasion, I arrived a tad bit late and got the familiar warning text as I was making our way.
“We’re at the statue.”
“Who the hell is we?” I thought to myself as I ran up the escalator. I found her in the street to my left. Part of the Boulevard Saint Germain had been cordoned off for a march. I can never tell. Allessandra was accompanied by a short Asian woman who seemed half token friend, half witness to my suitability. They had been doing something culturally rich and all - consuming before hand and were now parting ways which meant that I too was now forced to meet and say goodbye to this Asian woman in the space of five minutes. Allesandra had a camera draped around her shoulder. They were in the middle of a discussion about Artemisia, a female Baroque painter they had just been to an exhibition of. They were speaking of how the exhibition had partly reinvented her as a feminist. The benefit of hindsight. They were wild about it. It was a shame that I was not more knowledgeable as it became the main subject for the next five minutes. People in the march began to pass us by. It was hard to hear. We had to step to the curb to avoid arms, legs and banners. It was something about Turkey and Armenia and freedom speech. I was now surrounded by topics of fervor that I was not well versed in. Between Artemisia the painter coming in one ear and the marchers holding up signs for Armenian genocide, I felt superfluous to say the least. I was not going to tell her that arranging to meet me while she was still engaged in an activity that she had already planned did not feel nice. I began to wonder why she needed me here at all. Was this charity dating? I knew this was not entirely fair but I could not help but feel petty. I tried to think of the equivalent. Perhaps I could invite her to join me at the end of my dental cleaning? Eventually, I think she got the message as the Asian lady, now sensing my displeasure, announced that she had to get home.
“I’ll leave you to it.”, she added. “Leave us to what?”, I wondered.
We walked down the Rue Saint André des Arts with me trying to walk side by side but still having to make way for oncoming pedestrians. The sidewalks in Paris are never wide enough for a couple walking side by side. Allesandra stopped abruptly in front of a jewelry shop to admire some token trinkets in the window. The shop was closed so there was no danger of this turning into a actual shopping excursion which would have vexed me even more.
“What’s your favorite color?” she asked while looking at a large turquoise broach.
“I like that one. Turquise. I’ve always liked turquoise. It reminds me of the sky.“
Allesandra looked up skyward. “Not this sky”.
“Certainly not this sky.”
The sky was a hazy milk color. It was sprinkling with rain. It felt like a low pressured shower nozzle dripping on my face. I heard the sound of Allesandra’s camera clicking off a shot. She was not photographing me. Instead she had found the sky more interesting and was taking a picture of that. We walked all the way to the Pont Neuf with her halting dramatically to take pictures of its design. She looked like someone who had watched a lot of movies about photographers, copying the choreography of someone caught up in an intense photo session. It had become more than a little obsessive, this picture taking. Was she working for Architectual Digest? Was she a structural engineer? Why so many photos? And why did she feel the need to document such academic details? She snapped off frames of the stone supports of the bridge. She snapped pictures of the graffiti, the warning signs for river traffic. I thought that she might have at least added a few human faces to her portfolio.
We were almost to the Place de Chatelet and engaged in a little bit of intimate conversation when Allesandra noticed a pet store coming up on our left. I sensed immediately that this was to become another obstacle in our nascent relationship. She skipped forward to get a look at the large display windows. Alas, there were no cute creatures in the window. Just some hay left over. Like a child not bothering to ask for permission, she rushed in. There were no casual looks behind her to see if I had also followed her in. If there were ever a case of someone who had not lost the hopefulness of youth, Allesandra qualified. The smell of animal urine was pretty overwhelming and I began to regret her impulsive behavior as soon as we made it inside. I tried to hold my breath until the experience ran its course but she was dragging it out, prepared to pinch her nostrils until she had given the whole shop a once over. Allessandra made her way to the back where a few dogs lay like they had been given Quaaludes. A fake alligator hung from the wall. It seemed like a strange choice. As if the store struggled itself was a junction between life and death. Birds chirped but I could not deduce where the sounds were coming from. The vibe was more antiques store or test lab. The last thing I could imagine would be for little Marie to choose her puppy here. But who was I to judge? Finally, Allesandra had had her fill, squeezing her nose and saying “it smells!” We ran out, pursuing this impulse.
If we were still in the age when cameras required film, then Allesandra would have exhausted her reels long ago. But thanks to the digital age, and her seemingly limitless desire for comprehensive documentation, there were plenty of other city details to capture. By the time we reached our entertainment destination, I felt like a ghost only partially able to determine my future. Outside, we scrutinized the posters. The films I wanted to see, she had seen. The only film she had not seen was a film I was far from keen to spend my ten euros on. We had reached a crucial juncture in our relationship. Would she sacrifice for the sake of sharing an experience together? Would this femme enfant decide that seeing a movie she had already seen for the sake of us sharing an experience together, for me the point to any date, would be more important than her compulsive need to see as many movies as she could on her UGC cinema card? The answer would be no.
“We can go to separate films, if you like….” She phrased it oh so delicately, like it was still a decision for me to make.
“You can go to see the one you want, and I can see the one that I want and then we can meet after. They begin roughly at the same time. Well yours only a bit after, so you would not be waiting for me long.”
"So what you are saying is that you are perfectly happy seeing a movie alone." I thought to myself.
And it was at this fateful moment, upon Allesandra uttering this sentence that I made up my mind that I would not bother to call her again. For Allessandra was less in need of a partner and more in need of a sherpa. I became quite convinced that if it wasn’t me playing an accessory, it would be someone else. We ended up seeing the movie together. But our communication afterwards after it had begun with such promise, fizzled due to my never calling her again. Now I know what you are probably thinking. Why did you not give this girl a chance? Maybe all these outward busy body tactics were masking a hidden sensitivity? Maybe Allesandra gave the illusion of having things to do, but deep inside, it was only an affectation that would fade in time. Perhaps if I had met her for more of these dates, I would eventually replace photography, tango, museums, pet stores and turquoise broaches. But no one lives forever.
I approach everything in life with a mixture of trepidation and reserve. I am equally balanced in this way and most of the time, I end up doing nothing. After a few weeks of corresponding with faceless people, I finally got to writing to a woman who had potential. She was older which is no problem for me as long as I follow one simple rule: I must be able to imagine making love to this woman for the rest of my life. If a profile does not pass this impossible criteria, I usually relent and book a date anyway. My days of frivolity have pretty much passed except in the cases in which it has not quite passed yet. Allessandra was a forty something, sophisticated and charming Parisian woman, not so recently divorced. She stated that she was looking for a partner, someone she shared a spark with that could accompany on her cultural pursuits. After a few curt messages, mostly about her spelling out how fun it was speaking English with me (which I appreciated of course, but we were not speaking, we were writing), we agreed to meet. We were originally going to meet at the Place De Victoire to make things easier but as is apt to happen when people invite cell phones into their lives, she kept sms-ing me to change the locale of the meet. This should have been my first clue. She sent more changes of location than a mountain climber giving his coordinates to a rescue mission. I finally caught up with her under the arches of the gardens behind the Academie Français. Here, I found to my amusement that she was taking part in a renegade tango movement. The idea was to set up tango dances all over Paris on the fly and inform all members of the location at the last minute so that by the time the happening was reported no by the general public or uncovered by the police, the spontaneous dance would be over. These people met all over town apparently and there were certainly a lot of Tango enthusiasts to be found. Oh to be a tango dancer capable of leading a woman. Alas for me this is an impossible goal, like my dream of being the heavy weight champion of the world. Allessandra spotted me coming from afar. As luck would have it, her spontaneous tango session was ending and people were already gathering in clusters as the music finished.
I greeted her with a warm and casual kiss on both cheeks, as cool and non - chalant as I could muster for an Anglo Saxon. The music started up again. We stood there as couples began to form. I had been placed in a situation I had not been in since high school. It was obvious that even at this early juncture in our relationship Allesandra wanted me to ask her to dance. My issue with this was twofold: it was a public tango, a dance that required some degree of previous knowledge before attempting. Doing an unprepared tango with out any instruction seemed to me like taking the controls of a jumbo jet, although admittedly, not with all the lives at stake. The subtext only deepened as the music progressed and makeshift couples drifted by us as we said nothing. I had failed my first test. Females can be so crafty. This was pre planned. Why do most women value dancing so highly? I have a feeling that most ladies would be willing to put up with most deficiencies from their man, if they were only a good dancer. Unfortunately, I view dancing, both watching and participating, the way I view waterboarding. Women, why is it so important that men dance? Why do you not covet, say other skills that signal a quality time in bed, like curling? Consequently, I resented her immediately for even putting me in this situation. The leader of the dance radicals hit stop on his small stereo. The music ended and the group now knew that tango time was at an end. We retreated to a nearby ledge where she could change her shoes.
“What a beautiful place for tango”. It wasn’t a lie. It really was a bit of a miracle to have witnessed something so unorthodox in a place like this. For a Latin country, public places in Paris are usually highly regimented. Spontaneous dance parties underneath classic archways that used to house royalty are usually a no go. This tango onslaught was a refreshing change. To our right were the immaculately kept grounds of the Palais Royal. Now that we had a little seclusion, I faced her and was finally free to inspect Allesandra’s qualities. She had a delicate face. The kind you observe in 18Th century paintings with small feminine features that were miniaturized. She had a doll’s face with a few wrinkles that looked to be more from time in the sun than from worry. She had auburn tinged curly red hair that she swept back in a bun. She was in excellent shape for forty three. She wore jeans that generously displayed a figure that she had obviously worked hard to protect. We found our own little spot away from the other couples. She put on her city shoes, oscillating her concentration between striking up a worthy conversation and getting comfortable. I asked her if she did things like this often.
“Things like this?”, she clarified. She put her dancing shoes into a small bag that looked like she had got it free as a swag bag for other gifts.
“Secret tango dancing”. Perhaps I was being too clever. “You didn’t tell me that you would be tango dancing;”
“Why? It disturbs you?”
“It doesn’t disturb me, no. I just didn’t expect that you would be dancing.”
“It’s just something I do. They tell us where to go on Facebook. Every two weeks it is in another place.”
“No, it’s great. It’s fine. It’s unique.”
“You seem unhappy.”
I didn’t have the heart to tell her that she had stumbled on to a great secret. I also resented how Allesandra seemed to display another trait that I hated: “saying exactly what was on her mind”.
We walked through the modern underground fountains hidden from view outside the Academie Français. She marveled how the architect had created a kind of concrete rover underneath our feet. I also was struck how I had never seen this before, though I had walked over its surface a dozen times. It made me wonder if there are underground brooks everywhere in Paris where just underneath an urban landscape, there is running water. This could be beneficial information in case of an apocalypse. I told Allesandra this.
“I understand American wit”, she added. I wasn’t sure if this was American wit, I thought to myself. This was more like crap talk. Her accent was neutral. It had none of the FRench embelishments or insecurities attached to it. She felt comfortable speaking English and this made things easier. It can often be quite a hudle speakig with someone who is forever expeting you to correct them.
We headed to one of those strategic cafés that was visible from all three corners of our intersection. While this was convenient, this is never the café that a French woman voluntarily agrees upon in advance, on the contrary, the café that is usually covertly hidden on a trendy side street, the one that I don’t know, is the one they tend to go for. To my surprise, Allesandra was fine with just having a coffee at the most obvious of places. We sat down inside after I argued, quite successfully, that if we stayed outside, we were likely to be abandoned there for half an hour at least. Choosing an outdoor table at a café in Paris is like opting for the local train over the express. You know that someone will come out to take your order eventually, but it may take a full shift. Oftentimes, when I was too broke to order a drink in my youth but wanted to have the experience of sitting at a café and watching the world go by, I would opt for an exterior table and no one was the wiser for it.
Inside, we ordered without too much fanfare. I believe Allesandra had a noisette. This coffee is Parisian way of ordering an espresso but making the barman’s life a little more difficult. We talked about the usual stories of our lives. Wrapping up thirty some odd years of experience (in her case, a little bit more) into a three minute presentation each. It was actually rather efficient. It was as if she had rehearsed this or that this was an experience she repeated over and over again. I learned that she had studied in America. She was at a college near Sacramento for at least a year when she was in her early twenties. I mentioned that not many people realize that Sacramento is the capital of California. She said she still had trouble believing it. It seemed to have been a positive experience for her. She spoke of wanting to return as she had been young but it made her want to teach English in Paris which is what she did for a living.
“This is partly why I called you”, she interjected at some point in our presentations. I would like to meet more Americans. I love talking with Americans.”
I did not know this at the time but most Parisians looking for dates with Anglo guys like me are in fact far more interested in getting a free conversation lesson than in serious romantic attachment. English speaking partners are rare in Paris and therefore somewhat of a commodity. But this was a lesson I would be wiser to later. And in fact, I couldn’t really be sure is this was indeed the case for Alessandra. I had read on her profile that she was divorced and of course, being a guy always eager to delve into other people’s misery and misfortune, I secretly found myself wanting to get into these intricacies. But I did not have the courage to ask her on our first date. Instead, our first meeting was light and brief. Women on first encounters always have some place else to go, a preordained meeting, a doctor’s appointment, anything to avoid the perception of having free time on their hands. Just once I would like to meet a woman who comes to these things and says:
“You know, I want to talk about we’re from and all that, but I also have a bottle of Jose Cuervo tequila that I just have to get through.” I would not hold it against her, I swear.
We split the bill and I ended up slowly walking her to the metro. On the way home, she wrote me a text informing me of almost every cultural event and exhibition that was going on in the next fortnight in Paris. It felt half like she actually cared about me and half as if she was working for the mayor of Paris. We agreed to another rendezvous. It would be a movie this time and we could meet a little before the show so that we had time to talk. Perhaps then I could ask her something a little more personal than the controversy of California’s capital city.
Did you know that most Parisian women have a cinema card? I now know this. It’s a subscription card that allows you to see as many movies as you want. If you see two movies, it more than pays for the twenty euros you spend. The only trouble is that it compels its user to be compulsive cinema goer out of necessity to get one’s money’s worth. It also makes the act of choosing a movie for said devotee virtually impossible. Whatever you propose, they have seen it all already, which was the case with Allesandra. We decided to meet for a walk first. The plan was to meet at the Odeon statue at the Carrefour. We would then slowly wander across the bridges towards the Place de Chatelet and eventually find ourselves in the cinema territory of Les Halles. The Odeon statue is the default meeting point in Paris, where right now, at this very moment, dozens of young and men and women are waiting for their counterpart to arrive. Young ladies sit on the edge of the statue at its base and look at their watch. Young men hold the top of the staircase waiting for their sweethearts to come up the escalator like in some major dramatic scene. It is rather charming and old fashioned in its way. Sometimes, I think I should strike up a conversation with whoever has been forgotten.
When a man arrives late for a rendezvous, especially when this meeting is to take place in a public place for all to scrutinize, the female in question, if she has arrived promptly, usually sends a text to the male to inform him that she has indeed arrived. This is a warning. It is not a statement of fact. It means: “I’m the one that’s supposed to be fashionably late, asshole! Don’t leave me hanging!” On this particular occasion, I arrived a tad bit late and got the familiar warning text as I was making our way.
“We’re at the statue.”
“Who the hell is we?” I thought to myself as I ran up the escalator. I found her in the street to my left. Part of the Boulevard Saint Germain had been cordoned off for a march. I can never tell. Allessandra was accompanied by a short Asian woman who seemed half token friend, half witness to my suitability. They had been doing something culturally rich and all - consuming before hand and were now parting ways which meant that I too was now forced to meet and say goodbye to this Asian woman in the space of five minutes. Allesandra had a camera draped around her shoulder. They were in the middle of a discussion about Artemisia, a female Baroque painter they had just been to an exhibition of. They were speaking of how the exhibition had partly reinvented her as a feminist. The benefit of hindsight. They were wild about it. It was a shame that I was not more knowledgeable as it became the main subject for the next five minutes. People in the march began to pass us by. It was hard to hear. We had to step to the curb to avoid arms, legs and banners. It was something about Turkey and Armenia and freedom speech. I was now surrounded by topics of fervor that I was not well versed in. Between Artemisia the painter coming in one ear and the marchers holding up signs for Armenian genocide, I felt superfluous to say the least. I was not going to tell her that arranging to meet me while she was still engaged in an activity that she had already planned did not feel nice. I began to wonder why she needed me here at all. Was this charity dating? I knew this was not entirely fair but I could not help but feel petty. I tried to think of the equivalent. Perhaps I could invite her to join me at the end of my dental cleaning? Eventually, I think she got the message as the Asian lady, now sensing my displeasure, announced that she had to get home.
“I’ll leave you to it.”, she added. “Leave us to what?”, I wondered.
We walked down the Rue Saint André des Arts with me trying to walk side by side but still having to make way for oncoming pedestrians. The sidewalks in Paris are never wide enough for a couple walking side by side. Allesandra stopped abruptly in front of a jewelry shop to admire some token trinkets in the window. The shop was closed so there was no danger of this turning into a actual shopping excursion which would have vexed me even more.
“What’s your favorite color?” she asked while looking at a large turquoise broach.
“I like that one. Turquise. I’ve always liked turquoise. It reminds me of the sky.“
Allesandra looked up skyward. “Not this sky”.
“Certainly not this sky.”
The sky was a hazy milk color. It was sprinkling with rain. It felt like a low pressured shower nozzle dripping on my face. I heard the sound of Allesandra’s camera clicking off a shot. She was not photographing me. Instead she had found the sky more interesting and was taking a picture of that. We walked all the way to the Pont Neuf with her halting dramatically to take pictures of its design. She looked like someone who had watched a lot of movies about photographers, copying the choreography of someone caught up in an intense photo session. It had become more than a little obsessive, this picture taking. Was she working for Architectual Digest? Was she a structural engineer? Why so many photos? And why did she feel the need to document such academic details? She snapped off frames of the stone supports of the bridge. She snapped pictures of the graffiti, the warning signs for river traffic. I thought that she might have at least added a few human faces to her portfolio.
We were almost to the Place de Chatelet and engaged in a little bit of intimate conversation when Allesandra noticed a pet store coming up on our left. I sensed immediately that this was to become another obstacle in our nascent relationship. She skipped forward to get a look at the large display windows. Alas, there were no cute creatures in the window. Just some hay left over. Like a child not bothering to ask for permission, she rushed in. There were no casual looks behind her to see if I had also followed her in. If there were ever a case of someone who had not lost the hopefulness of youth, Allesandra qualified. The smell of animal urine was pretty overwhelming and I began to regret her impulsive behavior as soon as we made it inside. I tried to hold my breath until the experience ran its course but she was dragging it out, prepared to pinch her nostrils until she had given the whole shop a once over. Allessandra made her way to the back where a few dogs lay like they had been given Quaaludes. A fake alligator hung from the wall. It seemed like a strange choice. As if the store struggled itself was a junction between life and death. Birds chirped but I could not deduce where the sounds were coming from. The vibe was more antiques store or test lab. The last thing I could imagine would be for little Marie to choose her puppy here. But who was I to judge? Finally, Allesandra had had her fill, squeezing her nose and saying “it smells!” We ran out, pursuing this impulse.
If we were still in the age when cameras required film, then Allesandra would have exhausted her reels long ago. But thanks to the digital age, and her seemingly limitless desire for comprehensive documentation, there were plenty of other city details to capture. By the time we reached our entertainment destination, I felt like a ghost only partially able to determine my future. Outside, we scrutinized the posters. The films I wanted to see, she had seen. The only film she had not seen was a film I was far from keen to spend my ten euros on. We had reached a crucial juncture in our relationship. Would she sacrifice for the sake of sharing an experience together? Would this femme enfant decide that seeing a movie she had already seen for the sake of us sharing an experience together, for me the point to any date, would be more important than her compulsive need to see as many movies as she could on her UGC cinema card? The answer would be no.
“We can go to separate films, if you like….” She phrased it oh so delicately, like it was still a decision for me to make.
“You can go to see the one you want, and I can see the one that I want and then we can meet after. They begin roughly at the same time. Well yours only a bit after, so you would not be waiting for me long.”
"So what you are saying is that you are perfectly happy seeing a movie alone." I thought to myself.
And it was at this fateful moment, upon Allesandra uttering this sentence that I made up my mind that I would not bother to call her again. For Allessandra was less in need of a partner and more in need of a sherpa. I became quite convinced that if it wasn’t me playing an accessory, it would be someone else. We ended up seeing the movie together. But our communication afterwards after it had begun with such promise, fizzled due to my never calling her again. Now I know what you are probably thinking. Why did you not give this girl a chance? Maybe all these outward busy body tactics were masking a hidden sensitivity? Maybe Allesandra gave the illusion of having things to do, but deep inside, it was only an affectation that would fade in time. Perhaps if I had met her for more of these dates, I would eventually replace photography, tango, museums, pet stores and turquoise broaches. But no one lives forever.
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