Jouez-vous au basket?

In the United States, a tall woman can stand proud.

But here in Paris, things are different. Everything is smaller: the houses, the cars, the people. And to see anything beyond the “standardized portions” is OUTLANDISH.

It does not bother me when old ladies stare in terror because I could trample them with my boots. Or when the seamstress gawks at my feet when she realizes I’m not even wearing heels. No, what is irksome are the number of perfectly legitimate men I must dismiss due simply to height.

Don’t get me wrong, dating a gentleman of the same height or an inch or two shorter is perfectly fine. In fact, knowing that a man is comfortable standing with a partner of equal stature is in itself incredibly sexy. But deep down, a woman does crave to allow a man to feel as he genuinely wants to feel – like a man. There is just something so wonderfully classic about in this dynamic.

It becomes difficult to remain poised when one realizes that if she were to be more generic (that is to say be of average height, have paler skin, blue eyed) she would probably have a greater response from the men around her. (She also wouldn’t suffer from the dreaded Beyonce Curse in which a man is captivated by a beautiful ethnic woman because he finds her exotic for only a short while — a black woman’s jungle fever.)

To want to be more generic is one thing. To be just a few centimeters shorter is quite another. I guess it is no matter really. Yes, it would be wonderful to find nice shoes all the time, but there is also nothing like two tall, beautiful people who are deeply in love strolling arm and arm.

Sometimes, happiness can only found when it is shared.

Hier soir à la boîte de nuit.

Men are terrified.

Last night I went to a club in Monmartre. At one point, I found myself alone. It was the image men at a club that dream of: a good looking girl standing by herself by the dance floor sipping her empty drink nodding enthusiastically to the music. But I could feel hundreds of eyes on me. Some creepers stared long and hard while others shifted their eyes quickly when I looked in their direction. I even smiled at a few cute ones. AND STILL NO ONE APPROACHED!

So I said fuck it and I decided to just dance. I got close to the speakers, closed my eyes, and let the music take over my body. I just enjoyed the out of body experience.

When I opened my eyes there must have been 11 men crowded around me like a pack of wolves – each with hungry, lustful faces but too fearful to approach. I could have picked anyone I wanted. It was then that I realized something…

Do women have more power then we realize?

There had been this really cute tall guy wearing a grey cardigan on the dance floor. He noticed me but generally he stuck with his friends. I don’t understand why the tall cute ones never like to dance. In both Paris and LA, the tall ones always stand in the middle of the dance floor and don’t even bother to move. Perhaps it is because they don’t know how dance. I don’t know.

Anyway, with my newfound power, I decided to take matters into my own hands. If I want to dance with cute tall boys, then DAMN IT I’M GOING TO DANCE WITH CUTE TALL BOYS! So I slowly made my way over to where he stood – dancing for a few moments with the boys who stood in my path, then spinning around and dancing with his friend, then pulling a third one over, then slipping through all three. You know how it goes. (By the way, French guys totally don’t understand the whole “we dance only for a few minutes then I leave” thing. They get TOTALLY offended).

I finally found myself standing right in front of him. I touched his arm, looked into his eyes, smiled, and in French said “Would you like to dance with me?”

“Oh, I’m sorry” he said “but I’m with my friend” and pointed to this short man wearing nerdy glasses standing next to him……….

I wasn’t discouraged. Instead I turned to his tall, blond friend. “Would you like to dance with me?” “Okay” he said with a smile. We danced so well a circle started to form around us and through the blinking lights I could see the cute guy in the sweater watching us regretfully. Ah, what a sweet treat revenge can be. After some time I left that dude and went on with my evening.

Anyway, the point of that story is I realize that we have more power then we realize. If we really want to, we can play this game like a man – pick who wewant, have a good time, then split….but still, I don’t want to do that. There’s something lovely about a man (WHO IS GOOD LOOKING AND TALL AND NOT CREEPY) deciding that he wants you from all the girls the crowd and spending the rest of the evening together.

I guess I just like being a girl.

“L’addition, s’il vous plaît”

The other day, a friend from school invited me to tea.

“I’d like to take you to a genuine salon de thé” were his exact words. So, I met him at the metro and we walked through le Marais to a cute little tea house. There, he asked me what I wanted from the menu, asked me if I wanted a dessert to go along with my tea, and ordered for me. We had great conversation and the tea was delicious. We really did have a fabulous time.

When the bill came, I sat back and allowed him to take care of it – after all his exact words had been “I’d like to take you to a genuine salon de tea”. Perhaps he didn’t understand this connotation in English because he asked me if I had 10 euros. Luckily I did and it was really no big deal – but it just got me wondering…

What is a lady supposed to do when the bill comes?

I guess you have to look at the dynamic of the relationship. We are not dating, so many people would think it is indecorous for me to expect to be paid for. But why does this practice have to be preserved for courtship? Why can’t it just be apart of consideration and friendship?

I am a 19-year-old college student living alone in Paris. I do not have the luxury of going to a dining common three times a day. I don’t have a dorm concierge to take care of my household needs. I can’t ask my mother to run to the store and buy me some new shoes. I don’t have a father who hands me extra money for a cab home.  I live on a strict budget that includes rent, utilities, transportation, and most importantly – food.  So when someone asks me out for lunch – it’s sort of a special occasion. (okay maybe I’m exaggerating a little bit as I usually do eat lunch out – but I’m not going to tea houses and ordering desserts!)

One might argue that paying for a lunch is not typically apart of friendship. My guy friends do it all the time for each other for no reason at all. “Naw man I got it, don’t even worry about it”. They do it because they are friends and they want to take care of each other. It’s so generous. But when you add a young woman to the equation (someone who could actually probably use it) everything all of the sudden changes and these boys aren’t so charitable.

Perhaps it would have been different if I hadn’t sat back and allowed him to take care of things. Another friend of mine said that it is rude for a girl to just sit there with a smile on her face expect him to pay. But I personally feel more uncomfortable bumbling through my purse waiting for a man to say, “I got it.” I only want to take out my wallet if I have the fullest expectation of paying. Why pretend? Why not allow the gentleman to take care of me? As soon as he pays, I say thank you and perhaps invite him back to my place for ice cream or something.

I guess the immodestly lies in the expectation on my part. I will admit that it is awkward for me to assume that a man (friend, boyfriend, lover, whatever) will take care of me in this way. If this interaction had been in America, I would have most definitely taken out my wallet. Had it been a close friend living alone like me, I would have taken out my wallet. Had I known that my friend was struggling I probably would have paid. However, there is nothing wrong with a young woman allowing herself to be taken care of when the situation warrants it.

Fait sa part de travail!

I tried it today.

It was on the metro. I was seated next to a good looking gentleman wearing a suit. Beside us sat the ‘paper witch of line 8‘. When she exited the car, her terrible stentch of urine, dirty news paper, and despair filled the subway car. The gentleman and I turned to each other with mutual expressions of horror and pity. Upon locking eyes, I smiled at him. He looked away quickly. He’d been looking at me from the corner of his eye for our entire metro ride. Had he not been wearing head phones, I would have politely said ‘Cette femme est tres bizarre!‘ – thus giving him the perfect chance to say ‘oui, elle est tourjour sur ligne 8. Tu viens de paris?‘ But no.

I continue to meet good looking men wherever I go – on the metro they dress in buisness suits and hold brief cases, at the film shop they hand me my developed pictures, on the street they ask me for donations. Each one I smile at sweetly – just as I’ve been told to by my Parisian advisors. And yet none ever approach me or ask me out for coffee.

I cannot help but wonder if it is me. Am i just too tall, foreign looking, perhaps french guys just dont like black girls! ….Naw

Agh! What is a girl to do besides smile sweetly and keep an open gaze?

2 hours later

I take that back. I was approached today – but it was an Italian dude who barely spoke English or French so I’m not even sure that counts. I would have dismissed him but he told me he was working on the Armani show for fashion week. Plus it would be rude to whime and gripe all morning about men and dismiss a perfectly fine one who does does approach me.

I guess all I’m asking for is a little more interest. Just a little something from somewhere so that I dont have to go looking in metro cars and photo shops and street corners and bars! I do my part by smiling, opening my eyes, and being polite. Now I’d like these French men to do theirs!