You Look Like Spring

I am a little late in mentioning this because officially it started yesterday, but this happens to be International Flirting Week. (It started yesterday, February 11, and goes through February 17.)

Not that I resemble any sort of expert on the matter (in fact, I am probably pretty mediocre if not downright clueless on the subject), but it dawns on me that as a nation, Americans are not in the forefront of the art and/or science of flirting. I wonder if it is a byproduct of our country's Puritan roots and industrious nature, or if we have too many microclimates that do not encourage enough outdoor lounging and siestas. Or that people are overly afraid of sexual harrassment litigation.

I know there might be pockets of flirtation in this country, but they probably exist in geographical locations where there is an influx of residents from Latin countries. There are many countries where International Flirting Week exists in the hearts and minds of people every day of the year (to very loosely quote Charles Dickens here--but he was talking about the Spirit of Christmas). Those countries do not need an International Flirting Week. But I don't think just a week would help us change our ways here.

I was actually going to tie this subject into tango in some way, but it seems to me that is not the direction I wanted to take. Tango is a serious passion for me, and for many, many others, and so the subject of flirtation doesn't jive with what my tango is for me. In fact, it plays into the common misconception that tango is all about sex.

But I didn't want to give up on the idea of International Flirting Week because it's not often that a topic like that comes your way. So instead I think I will reminisce about a favorite flirtation, which also will incorporate my newest goal of working a Beatles song into my post. If any of you care to expand on the topic of flirtation and tango, be my guest. The [dance] floor is yours.

***

It was May. It was Paris.

It was a very rainy early May, where the skies opened more easily to intense and sudden rainshowers than to the more expected blue skies and sun. I had learned my lesson by being caught unawares by two downpours, the kind that produced large, heavy droplets that seemed much bigger than regular American raindrops. These French raindrops got you much wetter much faster.

I started taking my raincoat and umbrella with me, even though I still insisted on wearing a skirt and heels because the attention you get is more positive that way, and since I don't live in Paris, I have to take what I can get while I'm there.

I wore a robin's egg blue raincoat, a cheerful color. I was on my way to the Musée d'Orsay, in the slight hope that I wouldn't have to wait in a very long line to get in. I had just turned the corner onto the Rue de Bac, when I heard a man's voice behind me:

"Vous ressembler de printemps." (You look like Spring.)

He liked my raincoat, I supposed. I turned around to see who was talking to me and found one of those ageless, charming Frenchmen, holding an unopened bottle of wine just purchased at the shop. He had a large husky-shepard-type dog with him.

I thanked him for the compliment in my very broken French (why five years of good grades in French class has completely failed me in conversation is very annoying). He started to speak to me and I had to be honest and tell him I didn't really speak the language, to my dismay. He spoke no English so we tried to have some sort of conversation in French.

By this time, my companion had taken my arm and we continued our walk down the street, where it sprinkled intermittently. He somehow discerned that I was on my way to the museum and he told me he would take me there himself. (Even though I couldn't put together a simple sentence, I still had a reasonable idea of what he was saying to me. I think at one point we also discussed the Pope, but I am not 100% sure on that.)

He asked what my name was, and when I told him, he started singing Hey, Jude to me, en français. (My name isn't Jude, but it's close enough so I got where he was coming from.) Since that was pretty much the only way we could communicate, we finished our walk, arm in arm with the dog trotting back and forth between us, singing Hey, Jude in French and English. (The nah nah nah's are the same in French, fyi.)

We finished the song just as we arrived at the Musée d'Orsay. My guide indicated that he knew a secret side door, where he could convince the guard to let me in so I would not have to wait in the long line (note to future visitors: get your tickets at the ticket office in advance). He confidently strolled up to one of the museum guards and in French, explained that I was the daughter of the President of the United States, and that I should receive special treatment and not have to wait in line. The guard looked at me in bewilderment, I was embarrassed (mostly at being linked in any way to The Shrub) and I'm sure you'll not be surprised that I was not admitted to the museum through the special secret door as the daughter of George Bush.

However, my guide's duty was done; he had brought me to my destination. He firmly kissed me on each cheek, and as he walked away from me, waving, he was still singing Hey, Jude.

So whenever I hear that song, I think of an early morning chanteur who sang me down a rainy morning street in Paris.


The above photo borrowed from a lovely site about vintage hairstyles called The Hair Archives. The youtube clip needs no explanation.