Metro Sexual in the 6th
Marc: 6'1",
brown hair, friendly brown eyes, thin; half French half American,
originally from San Francisco and now living in Paris. His sexual
preference is questionable. I met him through my friend Stephen, who
got a group of us together to watch a 49er game at the Mazet pub near
Odéon in the 6th. We have been dating for five weeks...
In
Los Angeles, the morning after a sleepover with the opposite sex goes
something like this: I am awoken suddenly by the 7 a.m. call of the
lady who pushes the metal cart with the bell on the handle down the
middle of my street selling fresh tamales, making sure to announce over
and over at the top of her lungs, "Tamales, tamales..." I have yet to
actually try one of her fresh tamales because, the fact that one only
costs 50 cents scares me.
There
was one week when Laura and I were so broke that we couldn't afford to
replace the dead lightbulb in our bathroom, so we had to shower and do
makeup by candlelight until my then boyfriend was so fed up with having
to bring a pack of matches with him every time he wanted to use the
toilet that he bought one for us. On Wednesday of that week, I crept
down the stairs at 7 a.m. and waited for the Tamale lady, but she did
not come.
Now, I use the Tamale
lady to my advantage when I have, as my gay best friend Myke puts it,
"a convenient stranger" spend the night. Her piercing voice sounds the
last call for clothes. "Time to get up!" I throw on a sweatshirt and
start making the bed.
It's not
that I don’t enjoy the company of my dates, especially since I have so
few; it's just that at 7 a.m. the next morning the date's over. Plus,
Myke and I have a standing breakfast appointment at 8:30 the morning
after any sort of physical contact takes place with a man.
Myke
and I generally meet at Starbucks, because it is conveniently located
at the mid-point between our two apartments. And though there is a far
more charming café located at the end of my cross street, there is
something to be said for having my coffee exactly how I want it. And
sometimes, if its been a long night of pleasing somebody else, I want a
"venti, non-fat, sugar-free vanilla latte." We sit for hours and
discuss the events of the previous night in perfect detail. We analyze
the evidence and eventually determine whether or not the person I am
dating is crazy.
Myke feels it
his responsibility to assist me in judging this type of thing, as I
have a past filled with stalkers and ex-bosses who call too much. There
is only one guy whom I dated in Los Angeles that both Myke and I agree
was not crazy, though he was immature and sometimes would ask stupid
questions, such as, "Is a cat a mammal?"
In
Paris, there are three cafés where Laura and I generally meet for
emergency discussions: Le Danton, where we first saw Nicolas and where
they serve cappuccinos exploding with foam; Les Etages, where they
provide cheap cafés accompanied by toffee-covered peanuts and we flirt
with the 20-year-old waiter who makes me blush while constantly
refilling my bowl with nuts, proclaiming, "Il faut manger;" and if it's
a quick coffee, Nils, the Swedish cafe where they've got great café
crèmes for under two euros. However, Laura and I stopped going there
last week, when we became aware of a real stuffed reindeer decorating
their sitting area. This same day we discovered that Snittal, one of
their Swedish specialties, contains smoked reindeer meat. It turns out
that at Nils, it’s not where "Grandma got run over by a reindeer, but
where, Grandma can eat Rudolph for dinner." In the States, there would
surely be protesting, especially around the holidays—you’d have
reindeer activists dressed in antlers and red noses picketing with
signs to save Rudolf.
Naturally,
when I heard that a Starbucks was opening in Paris I had mixed
feelings. I know that I should boycott the nasty chain store that
serves giant coffees in to-go cups, but there is part of me that is
looking forward to my re-acquaintance with my old friend the venti,
non-fat, sugar free vanilla latte.
When
I phoned Laura about an emergency breakfast regarding the questionable
sexuality of my new boyfriend Marc, she suggested that this time we
meet over a Starbucks coffee at 26 Ave. de l'Opéra. I brought with me
the evidence:
A: While Marc and
I were exploring the shops surrounding the gates of the Luxembourg
gardens the week before Christmas, I spotted two scarves in the window
that I thought would make perfect gifts for Myke. One contained
different shades of blue, while the other one flashed rainbow stripes.
Just as I had decided on the blue for Myke (concluding that the rainbow
scarf was far too gay, even for West Hollywood) Marc grabbed the gay
rainbow scarf in admiration. At first I thought he was joking, well,
hoped he was joking, but the gig was up as I watched him walk over to
the woman at the register and pull 65 euros out of his pocket. That's a
lot of money to pay for a gay rainbow scarf, not to mention a short gay
rainbow scarf.
At this point I
put down the blue scarf that I was considering for Myke; I simply could
not have my gay best friend and my boyfriend in the same wardrobe.
B. When Marc wears the short gay rainbow scarf, he folds it around his neck like the gay pride ribbon.
C: Marc uses high-volume salon shampoo recommended to him by his male hairdresser who Marc proclaims is just, "Fabulous!"
D:
Two nights ago, before bed while I was heating up a pot of
orange-cannelle tea, I turned around to find Marc standing, bent over,
staring at his legs. He then looked at me and said, "God, I have to do
something about my thighs, they have never been this big."
E.
He knows who designers Marc Jacobs and Jean-Paul Gautier are. He
inquired about the Marc Jacobs orange raincoat I was wearing while
applying New York salon Bumble and Bumble styling gel to his blown-dry
hair. Later when one of his friends complimented me on my coat, Marc
insisted that his friend look at the inside and admire the lining.
F.
Once Marc did not buy a brown sweater that he liked because he felt at
the time that he had too much brown in his wardrobe; he inquired of the
sales woman whether the same pull came in beige.
Saturday
morning, Laura and I approach 26 Ave. de l'Opéra, excited and strangely
nervous. We have been anticipating this moment for so long, wanting no
less than perfection--a glorious reunion. But would the frappuccino
really taste the same? Have all of the same ingredients? Be blended as
fine? What if they arent used to operating blenders and the ice comes
out all chunky and jagged? Would they have those delicious lemon
scones? Would my caffe latte cost me six euros?
We
have arrived. It looks beautiful. Better than we had imagined. It's
overflowing with big cushy velvet arm chairs balancing two, even three
students while the rest of their friends surround them seated
Indian-style on the floor. The place is packed--with French people.
Laura
and I stare up at the menu in awe...our dream has come true. We
desperately search for our favorite drinks--yes, Laura’s Coffee
Frappuccino with raspberry flavoring is there. I locate my huge caffe
latte--except in France it's grande instead of venti--but I am unable
to find the sugar-free vanilla syrup. How can this be? Starbucks is
famous for its non-fat sugar free vanilla lattes (to me at least).
There must me some mistake!
There
is no mistake. The man with the silve- rimmed glasses in the green
Starbucks apron behind the counter tells me so. No sugar-free vanilla.
I order a grande--excuse me, moyen plain caffe latte. Laura and I pay
for our drinks, which are, surprisingly, not absurdly priced and wait
for names to be called.
With our
drinks in hand we search for a seat but there is no room for us
downstairs--not even on the floor. There are bodies everywhere: hunched
over books, sitting on each others’ laps, and the guy with the
dreadlocks in the navy blue hooded sweatshirt to the right of the
entrance has his head against the window while he naps in one of the
cushy velvet arm chairs, hogging an entire other chair for his feet.
Laura
and I decide to try our luck in the upstairs sitting area. It's totally
packed as well, but we smile politely and convince two skinny
20-year-old guys in glasses--most likely engineering majors--to let us
steal the two empty chairs from their table.
For
a moment we sit, not talking, savoring our first sips, until we become
aware of the strange French rock music playing over the sound system. I
had forgotten that we are still in Paris. I begin to update Laure on my
concerns about my new boyfriend. I tell her about the scarf and the
Bumble and Bumble hair gel--a gourmet salon product that even Laure
isn't familiar with, and how he was a little bit too much impressed
with the lining of my orange raincoat.
Fifteen
minutes later, I feel that I've presented more than enough examples to
Laura for exploration... I await her response. Laura slurps a chunk of
coffee ice through the thick green Starbucks straw, "Well, he is
French..."
"No Laura, he's half French. His mom is French, his dad is American. Besides, he grew up in the United States."
Laura purses her lips and gives me the left head tilt shoulder shrug meaning well then, what else... "Gay?"
Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!
Please don’t let him be gay. How can he be gay? He's constantly
touching me and it's almost impossible for me to get any sleep when he
spends the night--he can’t be gay. "Laura, that's the thing, I don't
think he's gay and he's not French so what is he?"
Laura
takes another huge slurp through her straw and takes a long, overly
dramatic pause. She swallows, puts her plastic cup down and motions me
in towards her with her left index finger. She whispers, "Metro-sexual."
"What?"
"Marc. Hes a metro-sexual."
"What is that? What does that even mean--metro-sexual? You just made that up."
"No,
it's the newest thing. A metro-sexual is a straight guy who does girly
or seemingly gay things. For example, a metro-sexual might get facials
or a manicure or wear rainbow scarves..."
"Or
use Bumble and Bumble hair styling gel..." Omigod...could Laura be
right? Could it be that my new boyfriend is a metro-sexual? It makes
sense. He's not gay or French...My eye wanders to the petite brunette
to my right wearing a black and white bandana around her head; she is
eating a pain au chocolat.
Mmmmmmmmm...Starbucks
in the States doesn't serve pain au chocoats. The guy in the green army
jacket across from her is eating a Croque Monsieur...I'm hungry. I
decide to go downstairs and grab a snack.
When
I arrive downstairs at the glass case filled with the temptation of
pastries and baguette sandwiches, I realize that I have no idea what I
want. The choices I am faced with are foreign. Myke and my Starbucks in
Los Angeles has snicker doodles and pumpkin scones--what is a Croque
Monsieur doing in Starbucks? It seems so out of place...but then I
realize that everyone is eating them, the French people. And now I
start to get it...Starbucks is trying to fit in. They are an American
company that wants to appeal to a French audience, so they adapted
their product a little...and it was working. The French feel at home
here, rather than invaded by the big American chain store.
Could
this be what is going on with Marc? Perhaps he's just trying to fit
in...maybe he's affecting his personality in France or rather his
personality is being affected by the French. And maybe I’m worrying a
little too much about trying to put a label on this person whom I
really care about and have a great time with who happens to own a
rainbow scarf.
And who knows,
maybe it'll be kind of fun having someone to go shopping with. Maybe
I'll get a little more into the fashion thing while I‘m here--get
myself some of those funky pointed toe shoes with the short spiked
heels, start dressing a little more French. Maybe Marc could help me
pick them out, or at least tell me the best place to find them.
I
think it's great that Marc wants to assimilate himself into the French
culture--and besides he is half French. So for now, I'm content with my
not French, not gay, maybe a metro-sexual boyfriend...I will resume my
concerns when Starbucks starts serving fruitcake.
--
Kirsten joins Bonjour Paris from Los Angeles, California where she recently graduated from the University of Southern California with a BFA in Acting. Last year she co-wrote the book and lyrics to a new pop musical which expects to open in Los Angeles next spring. Two years ago, while studying at a conservatory in London, Kirsten fell in love with Paris and decided that she was destined to return for some time. She's thrilled to experience this dream come true.
