Flirting, French-Canadian style
You’d think on a trip with 30-odd Midwesterners (have of them juvenile), there wouldn’t be much love-life excitement. And until tonight you’d be right.
My days are full of giving directions, dealing wih hotels and restaurants, and chatting up the 62-years-old bus driver. All of which leaves little time for getting my morning latte fix, much less thinking about my love life.
That is, until tonight. Just less than 40 minutes ago, the Broadway mojo kicked in for what may prove to be an interesting Friday night. We’r on our own the rest of the evening, and even starting late tomorrow (breakfasts normally have been eaten at 8 a.m.). Translation: Anna can have a drink and maybe even a little flirt.
Not that I went looking for such entertainments. Oh, no. But as I leaving the terrace overlooking a mountain lake (where our party had eaten dinner), I was accosted by a man who spoke in French. Struggling to remember all five of my stock phrases in the languge (none of which is, “I don’t speak French,” it turns), I hesitated.
“Ah! You don’t speak French.”
“Oui, monsieur.” Well, that’s what I should have said. But there was little need to hold up my end of the conversation at the rate he was chatting me up. Within minutes I’ learned his ex-wife remarried to a cop, he has three children living in London, and he once spent three years living in Paris (perhaps one for each child).
A bit of a player, no doubt, but what could I do? He is the resort-bar musician, after all (and you know how I am with blonds when they get creative that way). I think he’s even got a Guinness on ice for me.
Which means I should go drink instead of blog! Ta for now, dahlings. Will report on the North American banter later on.
Expect many “Ooh-la-las,” judging from our previous conversation. He might even make me sing ...
My days are full of giving directions, dealing wih hotels and restaurants, and chatting up the 62-years-old bus driver. All of which leaves little time for getting my morning latte fix, much less thinking about my love life.
That is, until tonight. Just less than 40 minutes ago, the Broadway mojo kicked in for what may prove to be an interesting Friday night. We’r on our own the rest of the evening, and even starting late tomorrow (breakfasts normally have been eaten at 8 a.m.). Translation: Anna can have a drink and maybe even a little flirt.
Not that I went looking for such entertainments. Oh, no. But as I leaving the terrace overlooking a mountain lake (where our party had eaten dinner), I was accosted by a man who spoke in French. Struggling to remember all five of my stock phrases in the languge (none of which is, “I don’t speak French,” it turns), I hesitated.
“Ah! You don’t speak French.”
“Oui, monsieur.” Well, that’s what I should have said. But there was little need to hold up my end of the conversation at the rate he was chatting me up. Within minutes I’ learned his ex-wife remarried to a cop, he has three children living in London, and he once spent three years living in Paris (perhaps one for each child).
A bit of a player, no doubt, but what could I do? He is the resort-bar musician, after all (and you know how I am with blonds when they get creative that way). I think he’s even got a Guinness on ice for me.
Which means I should go drink instead of blog! Ta for now, dahlings. Will report on the North American banter later on.
Expect many “Ooh-la-las,” judging from our previous conversation. He might even make me sing ...
<< Home