Me prendre si je tombe.

I think this one is getting to me…

And it’s different from what I’d ever imagine for myself.

Since I moved to New York, I feel like I’ve been thrust into a real life that twists, turns, and suddenly those sorts of inordinate things that I normally count on for stability don’t matter so much.

“I fall sometimes,” was one of the first things that I told him about myself. “Not very often, but sometimes,” I twisted my face into a wince that only drunkeness can educe. He looked back at me with penetrating scrutiny, but his expression remained still. “That’s fine. I can catch you.”

And that’s how it started.

It’s funny, those other inordinate things that I used to talk about so much –education, height, family, bank account — none of those things replace presence. Those inordinate things are illusions for security; they mean very little if a man is not there in his head or in his heart.

 

Le mec sur le train.

Settling down in Manhattan is like trying to jump onto a train that’s moving at 80 MPH.

You steady yourself, aim, and JUMP….

…Then BOOOM you fall headfirst back into the dirt. 

It sucks having to pick yourself up and try again. So far I’ve been on about eight job interviews — some went well, some went no where, some blew up in my face.

But the beauty about Manhattan is that trains don’t stop. They’re always coming around…so there’s always a chance to try again.

Dating here works like that too. Luckily, I’m fairly skilled at jumping on moving dating trains. I’m smart enough to avoid oncoming train wrecks. I’ve figured out which part of the tracks to stay on (Midtown, Village, FiDi if you like “suits”). Hell, I’ve graffitied my name on a car or two and kissed the conductor goodbye.

But sooner or later the train your riding disappears because all people in Manhattan work like hell… Schedules clash, texts go unanswered, people get busy. It sucks.

But lo and behold, another train. This one is coming from Washington Heights and headed down Broadway. I wonder where it will take me?….

Oh, by the way that last train that I was on is taking a detour to New Hampshire. It’ll be back around this weekend.

….Steady, Aim, JUMP

La vrai ville de l’amour.

The thing about New York is that everyone is eager to fall in love…

…with a whole lot of people, all at the same time…

There is no time for monogamy here. Not when you can’t go home because your apartment is cramped so you go to your lover’s place, and then he leaves, so you contact that other boy you met at the music festival last week who happens to live in Brooklyn, and you get on the train to go meet him at a coffee shop, and who do you meet but another handsome stranger reading a haggard copy of Chaucer.

Life in New York happens quickly. One minute you’re walking and the next minute, who knows? 

Okay, I don’t have to pretend that I didn’t meet someone today. He explained to me that he was getting out a terrible situation with a crazy x (who was once a dominatrix and wants to have his baby — red flag) but said that he liked me very much and would like to get coffee sometime… Actually he didn’t ever say that he liked me, but he did admit that he doesn’t like to be alone.

“There is no reason to ever be alone in New York,” I explained (as I asked for the check so that I could leave), “You’re so close to people all the time, it creates just the right amount of distance.”

That’s the beauty of New York. So many different kinds of people, all here together on this tiny island. It’s only been three weeks, and I have absolutely no intention of settling down.

But I have a suspicion that love may just catch me somewhere when I’m not looking, wrap a rope around my leg, and lure me in.

Finally an answer….

Since the very beginning of this blog I’ve grappled with the question of love…

Two years ago, my innocent mind advocated the golden rule – the idea that a woman mustn’t give herself to a man too soon if she wants to be taken seriously.

It was a lovely, totally unrealistic sentiment.

Months later in Paris I discovered the subtle, intimate allure of slipping into a love affair that has no rules, no name, no ending….The sort of romance that burns entirely on passion and is absent of figures of regularity.

“Perhaps this is the difference,” I explained to a friend once I’d returned, “Americans hold love to rules and equations, while the French are not afraid amble hopelessly into their love affairs.”

The gentleman smiled at me, “I think it’s a matter of age, quite honestly.”

Age? Oh, I hadn’t considered that…

More time passed until we find ourselves in the present day and quite frankly…

I really don’t give a damn anymore.

If a man is going to fall in love with you, he’s going to fall in love with you. If he’s not, he’s not. Hold the act of love to your own standard. Enjoy your life, make the most of every moment, invest in your well being, and always move forward.

That is my motto.

Une érection désagréable.

I once confided in an old English woman about men.

“I don’t understand why they expect so much so soon.” I asked. “And why do they get so angry when things don’t go their way?”

She said:

A man does not feel arousal the same way a woman does. He can’t just flitter around with his affections. Arousal for him is more physical. Often a man will resent a woman whom he is attracted to. He will think she is purposefully alluring him even if its irrational. Don’t tamper with a man in this way. An erection can be extremely unpleasant.

(Isn’t it funny that the word “érection” is feminine. French.)

Ce que j’ai toujours su.

I believe I have discovered who I was in my last life.

“Man can never know the loneliness a woman knows. Man lies in the woman’s womb only to gather strength, he nourishes himself from this fusion, and then he rises and goes into the world, into his work, into battle, into art. He is not lonely. He is busy. The memory of the swim in amniotic fluid gives him energy, completion. Woman may be busy too, but she feels empty. Sensuality for her is not only a wave of pleasure in which she is bathed, and a charge of electric joy at contact with another. When man lies in her womb, she is fulfilled, each act of love a taking of man within her, an act of birth and rebirth, of child rearing and man bearing. Man lies in her womb and is reborn each time anew with a desire to act, to BE. But for woman, the climax is not in the birth, but in the moment man rests inside of her”

— Anaïs Nin (The Diary of Anaïs Nin, Vol. 1)

Le Jeu Français de L’amour.

The thing about French men is they come and go as they please.

One minute their completely into you — incessantly calling, inviting you out, hitting the town, taking you out to dinner. On the dance floor they stare like ravenous, sex deprived dirty animals — throwing their hands up in the air yelling “aiiiiy” and offering you drinks.

And when the fixation melts away, they suddenly disappear into the abyss. They are not to be disturbed. “Because you no longer make it interesting” I remember a mec once told me after I asked why he vanished from my radar.

And then they come back after a few months usually unexpectedly and out of the blue. They play it cool and act as if they didn’t rudely disregard your message four months ago. In fact, they make it your fault, “What are you talking about? You stopped talking to me after the New Year” or blah blah blah.

I have a theory that French people ruin each other:

The French women are crazy because the French men are dogs, and the French men are dogs because the French women are crazy. Their relationships seem to last much longer than American ones, but they’re filled with tempestuous misery: outspoken adultery, random one night stands with friends, arguments, unreasonable demands… …and yet they seem to enjoy it. Perhaps they get off on the constant make-up sex – I wouldn’t know.

I now understand why the Parisian women glare at me like villainous little cats ready to kill. Their boyfriends don’t hide their attraction and will, quite frankly, me baise if I play my cards right. And the Parisian woman can do nothing — only stare with daggers in her eyes.

Of course he will return to her begging for forgiveness. And of course she will angrily disdain him — ignoring his phone calls, insulting him in public, slamming doors in his face, rejecting his pleas of mercy. And of course — after 3 weeks they will reconcile and enjoy passionate make up sex. It’s a love game really. Because in truth, the French man and the French woman cannot live without one another.

Et moi, je ne tomberai jamais amoureux d’un homme Français. Jamais.

Femmes Françaises Savent l’Amour

I suppose this blog is not very french of me according to Debra Ollivier. That’s alright, a part of fitting into French culture is realizing you are indeed not French.