Tuesday, December 2, 2008
There is something I have to say and there is no way it can come out without sounding shallow so I will just go ahead and put it out there: French guys are fucking hot. Or, at the very least, French guys are all my type.
They are perpetually disheveled with dark eyes (even if their eyes are blue there is something dark behind them!) and dressed in messy but expensive clothes and they all look like underfed bourgeois brats with the spirit of art glowing around them. They are exasperated. All the time they are exasperated, on the Metro when reading Proust or sitting nonchalantly at a bar sipping tiny cups of coffee, they are exasperated and they look like they need to be taken care of in the best way possible. When they look at your body there is a hunger in their eyes and when they kiss they bite your lip as if to mark you and say “this person is mine, in this place, at this time, I had this person and she belonged to me and she was mine.” They smoke cigarettes, all of them, but they never smell like cigarettes because they always smell like the air in the south of France, and also faintly of alcohol. All of them are artists. Every single one. Even if they work as oil traders or at some stodgy investment firm they have the desire to express themselves artistically and that mostly manifests itself in the form of talking in completely pretentious phrases as if they were some disillusioned character in Igby Goes Down. They understand sadness because they are sad and they understand beauty because they are beautiful and when they move they float.
Suffice to say that if I can bring any piece of important knowledge home from France it is that I should one day marry a French guy and bring our beautiful children up in a bilingual home like those assholes on The Real Housewives of New York and they will eat plump oranges with tough skins on lawn chairs in the sunny backyard of our brownstone that we somehow managed to afford even though their father and I are both pathetically unemployed freelance writers. Perchance to dream! Perhaps divorce hasn’t ruined me after all if I still maintain fantasies such as this one. And even when we (inevitably) get divorced because our weariness makes us foreign strangers to each other we will do so amicably because that’s what enlightened people do and above all the French are enlightened.