Sunday, Jul 20, 2008
I'm a Francophile because the men there make me feel more attractive than I am.
Jan 2, 2001 | I am not a preternaturally attractive woman. I have good teeth and shiny hair and long legs -- but so do most horses, so who cares? I have, of course, noticed men noticing me, but usually I attribute such instances to my notion that straight guys will check out anything as long as there is even the faintest suggestion that it might have breasts. I do not mean this in a harsh or negative way; I believe that it is part of the male condition and should qualify for medical coverage and, when necessary, minor invasive surgery.
On those occasions when I have sensed an unusually high amount of interest coming from some especially unsubtle member of the opposite sex, I do not feel flattered or even threatened, I just try to figure out which grotesque suggestion that I am an unkempt troll unfit for living anywhere with indoor plumbing has revealed itself this time. The hot chocolate stain on my crotch? The coagulated strawberry jam on the side of my face? Oh God, the grape-juice mustache I still get every time I drink the cursed stuff? On any given day, the evidence abounds, and I do not truly feel at ease until I have locked myself in the privacy of some rank public restroom to inspect myself from head to toe. It is an affliction.
None of this applies, however, when I am in Paris. There, either I am the French ideal of irresistible charm personified, or it is a culture that prizes women who sport bits of that morning's breakfast on their face and clothing. Either way, it doesn't matter. And it has made me a Francophile for life.
I first experienced the peculiar phenomenon of my own trans-Atlantic deliciousness when I lived in Paris as a student 10 years ago. Granted, I arrived there having spent two years at a women's college where the only off-campus transportation was a fluorescent-lit bus that both its passengers and those whose sex lives (or, more accurately, fantasy lives) depended on them called the "Fuck Truck." After that, any change in my social routine was bound to yield positive results. I am certain that I was radiant with gratitude for not having to spend 45 minutes in a rickety vessel that stank of last weekend's vomit just to interact with the opposite sex, but that alone cannot explain the potency of my own powers of attraction when I landed in the Seventh Arrondissement in 1990.
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