Sleeping With Paris (17 page)

Back in my room, I logged on to my blog. More hits than last time, but still, I wanted to reach even more women. I forwarded the blog to Fiona and Lexi, hoping they could pass it around and spread the word. I began typing:

I just got back from a disastrous all-nighter, and I have an extremely important lesson to share with all of you:

Rule #1 – Sleeping around is okay, but don’t act like a man-whore and sleep with anything that walks. Yes, we’re attempting to date like men, but that doesn’t mean we should do everything they do. We’re smarter, remember? So, just because they would sleep with anything that has a pulse does not mean we should copy that behavior.

If you have a hot, sexy man in your bed and you feel comfortable taking the plunge, by all means, go for it. (And do be safe about it, ladies). But, if for any reason, at any time, you decide you’re not feeling it, don’t be afraid to say no. Then, if he acts like an asshole about it, call your friends, talk about what a jerk he is and move on.

Case in Point: Even though I just spent the night alone on the bathroom floor of a random hotel because the guy I was with became angry after I told him I didn’t want to have sex, I am still happy that I stuck to my guns. Would I really have wanted to sleep with such a prick just because he was good-looking? No. Trust your instincts ladies and you’ll be one step ahead of the game.

Thirteen

dimanche, le 31 octobre

Ex-boyfriends should be quarantined on a deserted island.

Three weeks, ten dates, and four missed classes later, Fiona, Lexi, and I were becoming inseparable. We went out together every weekend and lunched at cafés in the city a few times a week. Luc had stopped over once to say hi, but had completely disappeared after that. In a desperate moment one night, I knocked on his door to see if he was around, but he didn’t answer. I figured it was better off this way. The sex was fantastic, and I couldn’t say I wasn’t hoping for it to happen again, but Luc was dangerous. He was handsome, sweet, and amazing in bed, but sketchy and divorced and in love with someone else. Exactly the kind of guy I should avoid. So, even though I found myself thinking about him and wishing he’d knock on my door with that sweet smile and another bar of creamy chocolate, I reasoned that it was better to steer clear and keep seeing other men. 

I still thought about Jeff a lot, and some days I missed him terribly, while other days I hated him with all my heart and soul. Amidst all of my mixed emotions though, a small part of me was beginning to realize that leaving him was possibly the best thing I could’ve ever done for myself.

Of course, one of the major disadvantages to not having Jeff with me in Paris was the effect it was having on my bank account. Being a full-time student in an expensive European city where the dollar wasn’t worth a whole lot was seriously draining my funds. So, one beautiful autumn day in Paris, before heading out for a jog at the scenic Parc Montsouris across from my building, I wandered into all of the international dorms at the Cité Universitaire and posted some English tutoring flyers.

Later that evening, I was checking the hits on my blog when my phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Yes, hello. My name is Marc. Is zis Charlotte, zee English teacher?”

I smiled. Already a potential student! “Yes, this is Charlotte. Are you interested in taking lessons?”

“Yes, very much so. I am looking for an American to speak with a couple of hours each week to hopefully become fluent. I lived in zee States for five years when I was young, but I have lost much of my accent.”

Marc was already a pretty strong English speaker, so this would be fun. “Great, I’d love to help you out. Where do you live?”

“I am in zee Italian house at zee Cité Universitaire, although, I am not Italian. I am a French medical student, and I am trying to save money by living here. But just because I am a student, I do not want you to think I will not pay you well for zee lessons. It is hard to find a good English teacher who is American, so I am willing to pay a lot for zee right person.”

Lucky for him, I was willing to charge a lot for the right student.

“That sounds great, Marc. I live right around the corner at the American house, so would you like to have our first lesson tomorrow at Parc Montsouris across the street? We can meet at noon at the big gate on the corner of boulevard Jourdan and rue Gazan if that works for you.”

“That is perfect. I look forward to it.”

The next day, I waited anxiously at the gate for Marc, hoping he would be normal and easy to work with. Even though he’d sounded professional over the phone, in my past experiences with tutoring, students tended to flake out and cancel a lot, making it difficult to maintain a steady stream of cash. To sustain the fun lifestyle I was leading in Paris, I really needed this to work out.

After waiting for about five minutes, a scary-looking middle-aged man stumbled up to me. Oh no, this couldn’t seriously be him.

“
Excusez-moi Mademoiselle, vous êtes ravissante
,” the scary dude said to me while drooling on his musty, olive green t-shirt. This definitely wasn’t him. Marc wouldn’t walk up to me and tell me I’m ravishing when he’s about to pay me to teach him English. Plus he didn’t sound this old, or drunk, on the phone.

“Sorry, I don’t speak French,” I lied as I scanned the sidewalk looking for Marc. He needed to hurry up.

The weird dude advanced toward me and tried to grab my hand. That was where I drew the line.

“You need to back up right now,” I said sternly as I turned around to walk away from him, but instead, ran straight into some other guy. What in the hell was going on?

“
Pardon
,” I apologized as I pushed past him to get away from the weirdo.

“Wait, are you Charlotte?” the guy asked.

“Oh, Marc?”

“Yes, are you okay? Do you know zis man?” he asked, gesturing toward the scary man hovering over us.

“No, I don’t, so let’s walk!” I raised my eyebrows and gave him a this-guy-is-scary-look, hoping he’d catch on.

Luckily, Marc took the hint and held onto my arm as if we were a couple, leading me down the tree-lined walking path. The weird man yelled something incomprehensible at us, but then got bored and walked the other way. Whew!

“Thank you!” I sighed as Marc let go of my arm and turned around to make sure the guy was gone.

“No problem. I thought zat was you, and zat man, well . . . euh . . . he was not normal.”

“I appreciate it,” I said as I smiled at him.

Marc had just scored major points as my new, normal English student by saving me from the scary French drunkard. As we walked further into the lush, green park together, I immediately relaxed. As much as I loved the hustle-bustle of the city, it could be overwhelming at times. The Parc Montsouris, in contrast, was a peaceful haven full of shady trees, open grassy hills, fresh beds of flowers, meandering pathways, and, well . . . the occasional drunk.

I breathed in the scent of freshly cut grass while I sized up my new student. Marc was almost a foot taller than me and had a lean, firm build. His dark, straight hair sat in a messy pile on his head and was still a tad bit wet as if he’d just toweled off. He had captivating hazel eyes and a warm, friendly smile. He wore a plain navy blue t-shirt and a nice, baggy pair of jeans. (Well, baggy for a French guy that is).

“So, I would like to meet with you one or two times each week to work on English. If zat is too much, I understand, but I have extra time in zee weekend and zee evenings to study English.” Marc’s English was very formal, but grammatically, it was practically spotless. Just like Luc, he had problems making the “th” sound. Overall though, this was going to be easy.

“Sure, I have a lot of spare time, so we can meet as much as you’d like. It’s great that we live so close; it’ll make meeting up a lot easier.”

“Yes, definitely. Zee Parc Montsouris is a great place to meet when zee weather is so beautiful.”

“I agree,” I said as I gazed down the hill at the glistening lake below and noticed the red and golden hues that shimmered on the trees.

“So, what would you like to work on in our lessons each week?”

“I want to speak, speak, speak. Like I told you on zee phone, I lived in zee U.S. when I was young, and back then, I spoke perfectly. Now, I feel zat I have lost zee accent and I forget zee . . . euh . . . vocabulary. I don’t have anyone to talk to in English. So, if we can just talk about things, like everyday things, zat would be great. And I need to work on asking questions and understanding zee answers. It is hard, you know, when you speak fast, to understand zee English.”

“It can be really difficult. How about we get started then?”

Marc and I took a seat on a green wooden bench facing the lake as a pack of men in obscenely short shorts ran past.

“Okay. I will ask you some questions first,” Marc said, a look of determination on his face. “Where are you from?”

“I grew up in Ohio, and then I went to college in Washington, DC.” I was anxious to hear how Marc pronounced Ohio. Most French speakers dropped the “h” making it sound like “Oio,” and it always made me giggle.

“Oh, you are from Oio . . . what is in Oio? I have never been there.”

I suppressed my laughter. “It’s actually O-
hi
-o, don’t forget that “h” in there.” I smiled at him to make sure he felt comfortable with my corrections.

“I know . . . zat is one of zee most difficult letters for me to pronounce. Let me try.” Marc made a very serious face and then spit it out. “O-
hi
-o!”

“’Yes, that’s it!”

“So, what is in O-hi-o?” he asked, a proud look on his face.

“Um, not a whole lot. I was raised in a small town surrounded by corn fields. It snows a lot, and the weather kind of sucks truthfully. It’s nothing like Paris. But it was a nice, safe place to grow up, and the people there are really sweet and down-to-earth.”

“Sucks?”

“It’s a slang word. It means that it’s not good.”

“I see. And what are you doing here in Paris? You are a student, no?”

I filled Marc in on the program I was completing at the Sorbonne and on my plans to teach in France.

“There’s only one problem though,” I continued.

“What is zee problem?”

“I was assigned an advisor at the Sorbonne, and she’s
awful
. She’s worse than awful actually, she’s mean and uptight and she already hates me after only one meeting.” I figured if I was going to help Marc with his English, there was no need to sugar-coat it.

“Must you have this woman’s approval though?” he asked with a laugh.

“Unfortunately I do. If I want to get a teaching position at a good private school in Paris, I have to get
her
recommendation. And you should just see her. She wears these black turtle necks that stretch up to her wrinkly chin, and she pulls her hair back in this tiny little bun with her beady eyes squinting at the sides. Oh, and you should hear the way she says my name in her stern voice, ‘Mademoiselle Summers,’ like she’s about to slap me on the wrist with a ruler. God, she’s terrible.”

Marc’s pleasant smile faded into a blank stare. I figured he was having a hard time understanding words like “uptight” and “wrinkly chin.” Maybe I should’ve taken things a little slower.

“Sorry, I’m probably speaking too fast. It’s just that she really infuriates me.”

“No, I . . . I understood perfectly.” Marc shifted uncomfortably and refused to meet my gaze.

Was I making him uneasy? I decided to change the subject.

 “What about you? Where did you grow up?”

“Oh . . . euh . . . I grew up in Lyon. You know Lyon? It is south of Paris.” Marc stared off into the distance, clearly distracted.

I immediately lit up. “Yes, I love Lyon! I lived there for six months actually.”

“Zat is nice. My father still lives there.”

“What about your mom?” I asked him.

“Euh . . .” he hesitated while he kicked at some branches on the ground. “She is a professor in Paris.”

“That’s cool. Where does she teach?”

Marc kicked the branches a little harder this time and fixed his gaze on a tall swan floating on the water. “At zee Sorbonne.”

“Oh, cool. Maybe I’ve seen her around. What subject?”

“She trains students in how to teach French as a Foreign Language.”

As I hoped this wasn’t heading where I thought it was, I suddenly remembered something. When Marc had first called to introduce himself, he’d said his full name—Marc Rousseau.

Oh, shit.

“Marc, are you related . . .?”

“Zee woman, your advisor. Her name is Madame Rousseau? No?”

I nodded in agreement while my stomach twisted up in knots.

“She is my mother.”

 I bowed my head in shame as my cheeks went up in flames. I wanted to crawl under the bench, cover myself up in leaves and never come out.