The fierce-looking woman continued to stare at me, and then smiled in a way that was anything but friendly.

“Bon soir,” she said. Her voice had that low sensuous tone that was one-hundred-percent French.

“Bon soir,” I said, without even a hint of sensuous essence in my voice. Stupid Canadian accent.

“Trust me when I say, you do not want to be around that one.”

I looked around at any of the ones who were surrounding me. There wasn’t a single one.

“Have we met before?” I knew we hadn’t, but I needed some explanation as to why this woman was not only pretending she knew me, but also telling me what to do.

“Mais non, je m’appelle Claire. And you?”

“I’m Romi.” My alcoholic buzz was taking hold, so I couldn’t even wait for an explanation. “Tell me again who you’re warning me about? And why?”

“I was referring to Felix, your own personal ‘tour guide’ for a trip around the regions of wine.” She smirked.

Who was this French bitch? And was she actually jealous? Did French women even get jealous? From what I’d read they always acted aloof and pretended they didn’t care about anything. But now I was here, facing some potential bitchery.

“He’s just a friend I made; you can date him all you want.”

“Ha! You insult me now!” Even when she seemed offended, her voice still sounded like a seductive quasi-whisper. I crossed my fingers that a year in Paris would help me learn to talk like that.

“Why would you be insulted? He seems really nice; and he’s a policeman!”

“Did he say local police force or the gendarmerie?”

My eyes widened. “The genda-what?”

“Darling it makes a big difference.”

So now I was the French bitch’s darling?

“It’s okay,” I said. “We’re only friends.”

“You’re a pretty girl but also naïve; this is dangerous in Paris.”

“And you’re here to save me?” I rolled my eyes as I handed my glass to one of the waiters.

She folded her arms and raised her nose in the air, as if that would make her taller. “I am simply telling you that I see Felix at many of these meet-ups. He is always looking for North American girls to prey on.” Now I knew she was lying. Felix had told me he was a shy little squirrel who hated Paris, only now venturing out at the encouragement of friends.

“Are you sure you don’t have him confused with someone else?”

“It seems you require an example.” I nodded. “Well, two weeks ago at a cocktail night, he was kissing a girl from ‘California.’” She said the word California like it was a toxin. “Then, only two nights later at a champagne party, he was getting the phone number of some woman from Florida!” She scoffed. “He might be French, but he always attends these international meet-ups to take advantage.”

Just then Felix bounded up the stairs, heading straight towards me with a smile. Claire scowled at him openly, but he ignored her and took me by the arm, leading me away to a deserted corner.

“Where would you like to go after this?” he said.

I must’ve had a bottle’s worth of wine in the last two hours; how could there be an after-party?

“I’m going home,” I said.

“Is this an invitation?” My drunken eyes popped wide open. “I only make a joke!” he quickly added. He patted me on the shoulder in a reassuring manner, but it quickly changed to a slow and sensuous stroke of my entire arm. I watched his hand slide up and down, up and down, up and down. Instead of getting turned on, the repeated motion was making me a little sleepy. I wished I hadn’t had so much wine; didn’t he know how much wine I’d had? He lowered his face so our lips were inches apart. “Let me take you for a glace, would you like that?” I stared at him blankly. “An ice cream, I mean. You like ice cream, yes?” He stroked my arm yet again, as if arms were the place from which ice cream desires sprang forth.

I backed away but he moved in closer, just as Claire had done; was that a French thing? I noticed her on the other side of the room, smirking like a big fat know-it-all. It must’ve been a satisfying moment for her, since she’d obviously been right, which left me in a state of needing a serious rescue. 

“Felix, it was really nice meeting you, but...my friend’s going to take me home now.” I gestured to Claire, who suddenly looked away like she didn’t even know me.

New lesson: if you don’t listen to a French woman, she will punish you.

“What do you mean?” His big smile was gone. “I spend so much time teaching you about wine, and now you take your knowledge and leave with someone else? What is left for me in return?”

I hadn’t realized that making friends with a French man was a strict transaction, but now I could see that he was waiting for me to pay up.

“But I thought you enjoyed talking to me; isn’t that a pretty good trade?”

He scoffed, backed away like I was a used tampon, turned, and walked right out the door. My eyes followed him out as the click-clack of heels approached. Oh no.

I turned ever so slowly and there she was, her sharp but beautiful features twisted into arrogant satisfaction.

“Hello Claire.”

“Do you see what happens to naïve North American girls in Paris?”

I lowered my head in defeat. “Yes.”

“Are you going to listen to me now?”

I raised my head fast. “But I don’t even know you.”

“Are you here on vacation or here to stay?”

I smiled at the thought of my new existence. “Here to stay.”

She returned the smile, but in accordance with her know-it-all demeanour, it was only a slight movement of the lips. “Then we’ll change the not-knowing into...knowing!”

She grabbed my arm and practically dragged me out of the wine bar.

Out of nothing more than total curiosity...I followed.

***

It was the kind of warm night that I’d been longing for, when I’d thought of an early September arrival in Paris. So balmy it was, that we found ourselves strolling the pedestrian cobblestone off Rue Saint-Denis, in a charming area near the Pompidou museum of modern art.

“Arretez pour un glace?” I loved that Claire spoke French to me, not because it felt romantic since I definitely wasn’t a lesbian, but because when someone else managed to put all the words together, it dug up all the knowledge I hadn’t even touched since high school.

“Yes of course I’d like to stop for an ice cream!”

Claire nodded firmly. “This is good; I speak in French and you respond in English; that way we help both our skills.”

“Okay!” I slowed down and eyed her suspiciously. “You know the word  ‘okay,’ right?”

She scowled and just like that it was back, that special French way this tiny woman could be so fearsome. “And you know that when I say glace I mean a low-fat fruit sorbet, yes?”

“Actually, I plan on having ice cream the way it’s meant to be had. Like double-churned cream and all that delicious shit; comprenez-vous?”

She scrunched her nose. “You are...so American.”

“I’m Canadian!”

“Alright Miss Canada, we will get you some cow’s cream now.”

We walked along as people milled about beneath warm-yellow streetlights. These no-car zones made things a lot more leisurely, and I was quickly beginning to love this part of Paris very much. Further down was the city’s most famous ice cream and gelato chain. She led the way, and I quickly realized why she was a size two and I was a size six. Self-restraint in the form of sorbet.

Three years ago, I would’ve obsessed over the difference in our sizes for the rest of the night. But now, in Paris? The only thing I obsessed about was how many scoops of ice cream would be enough...

***

We found a corner table on the small terrace, and there, with a gentle breeze passing through, I indulged in my three scoops of ice cream, as Claire filled me in on her life. She hailed from the countryside in eastern France, a fact she hid well with her trendy clothes and model-like figure.

“Countryside, eh? I’m picturing sprawling vineyards and old castles.”

She laughed between bites of her boring raspberry sorbet. “You are clearly not picturing eastern France. Think more of farms, farmer trucks, farmer clothing...”

“I wouldn’t mind a hot farmer; all sweaty and muscular.” I sighed.

“Maybe I’ll introduce you to my cousin then. He loves football and has never read a book.”

My jaw dropped. “On second thought please cancel that request. Nothing is sexier than a guy who reads books. Sexy eyes and book smarts; these are essentials.” My mind travelled back to a guy I used to know; soon after I’d first met him, we’d discovered we were reading the same eight-hundred-page book, a book that wasn’t even a bestseller. Coincidence?

“Books and eyes,” she said. “But what if the man has only one eye?”

I shook my head. “No chance in hell. Which means please don’t set me up with a pirate.”

She held back a smile. “I will keep that in mind.”

Claire went on to say she’d been living in Paris for seventeen years, which now translated into almost half her life. Her clothes made a lot more sense when she revealed her job as a marketing director for one of the top champagne brands. She quickly added that yes, there would be discounted champagne in my future. YES! Suddenly I felt like I was making a new best friend.

“Mmm...” I said, as I swirled around the ice cream in my cup. “Wanna try some?”

She turned away in disgust. “I will stick to my light sorbet.”

I rolled my eyes. “Fine, but answer me another question: if you’ve been living here for half your life, and you’ve seen Felix at all these international meet-ups, well...why do you go to all these international meet-ups? Aren’t you busy with work and the friends you already have? I mean you do have friends, right?”

Her smile was so sickeningly sweet, that I knew what she said next would not be sweet at all. “I find your horrible guesses to be charming.” Yep, she’s mean.

“Then tell me the right guess.”

She shrugged her shoulders. “I go out to these events to see...to see if there’s a chance to meet a man.”

“What?” Every stereotype I had about French women was now being totally crushed. Why the hell would a confident, successful, beautiful French woman go to casual meet-ups organized online for the purpose of meeting men? She was supposed to be strolling along the river without care, and a handsome French man was supposed to scoop her up, spin her around, and place a long-stemmed rose between her teeth. So why was the truth so drastically wrong?

“This makes no sense,” I said. “You’re French.”

“Mais oui.” She smiled knowingly, like she was waiting for me to join her in whatever conclusion she had long ago made.

“Well look around you! French guys are everywhere, and they’re only the most romantic nationality of guys! Or maybe second-most after Italians.”

For the first time, her conservative smile broke free and burst into laughter. “Who told you this illusion about French men?”

“It’s just one of those things that everyone knows...it’s a fact!”

“Oh mon dieu, they spread such lies in North America. Believe me, French men are not even in the top ten, when it comes to most romantic in the world.”

Then what the fuck am I doing in Paris?

Not that I’m here to meet a man.

Whatever.

“But why? What’s wrong with them?” My eyes were now revealing a sense of worry.

She put out her hand and started listing things off with her fingers. “Rude, demanding, superficial, selfish lovers, insulting, and so...well they’re just so...what is the word for assuming you should get something without doing any of the work?”

“Presumptuous?”

“Yes! That! Give it two weeks, and you will notice what I mean wherever you go.”

“But not ALL French men though...right?”

I was sure she had it wrong; maybe she was simply a bitter woman.

“Trust me, your experiences will be bad enough to make you change your mind about ranking French men second; especially you’ll find this in Paris.”

But I LIVE in Paris, dammit!

I finished my ice cream and felt myself becoming disillusioned. Pretty soon though, I managed to remember this woman was practically a stranger. I needed to find the truth for myself, and there was only one way to do that; I would simply give every French man I met an honest chance! Just like I had with Felix, even though he’d failed by getting all gross and creepy. But he doesn’t even count since he pre-dates this brand new plan.

I reminded myself not to share my little mission with Claire; I would simply wait and surprise her once I’d found myself a charming beau.

“Anyway back to you,” I said. “So you come to all these meet-ups to meet men from other countries?”

She smiled. “Oui. Mostly I look for the German ones.”

“Why?”

“Because German men are known for...” She put her hands far apart, as if I was supposed to know what that meant.

“They’re known for what? Their hands?”

“Wrong answer.” Her hands were still far apart.

“They’re known for...miming their hands like they’re holding a box?”

“Mais non! They are known for...a large size. You understand?” She gestured to her crotch. And yes, I understood.

I realized I was going to learn a lot about Paris from this woman, and maybe some things about Germany too.. 

(I hope you enjoyed the first few chapters of "Never or Forever." This is book 3 in the "Year of the Chick" series, and if you'd like to continue reading it, it's available at Amazon, Kobo, iTunes and Barnes & Noble! I'm sorry I couldn't make the entire book available on Wattpad, but my first full book is indeed up on Wattpad as a free full-length novel, so you can check that out and then continue with the series if you like! http://www.wattpad.com/story/1568271-year-of-the-chick . Also, book 2 in the series is called "Last-Minute Love," and the first few chapters of that are up on Wattpad as well! http://www.wattpad.com/story/4178190-last-minute-love )

ALSO:  You can read my candid and fun real-life account of life in Paris called "Vicarious Paris" on Wattpad, as the first several chapters are posted now:

http://www.wattpad.com/node_story/28685284-vicarious-paris-one-woman%27s-candid-account-of

"Never or Forever" at Amazon: 

http://www.amazon.com/Never-Forever-Year-Chick-Moondi-ebook/dp/B00FFIVTG6/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1384294295&sr=8-1&keywords=never+or+forever

"Never or Forever" at Kobo: 

http://store.kobobooks.com/en-CA/ebook/never-or-forever-year-of-the-chick-series

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