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| 3 months later, he still hasn't noticed this picture on his camera... |
Life returned to normal almost immediately after the French man's
departure - I was enjoying my new job, he was on holiday with his family then
with friends and we both seemed to be coping very well without each other. In
hindsight, we would probably have benefited from stopping all contact for a
while as we adjusted to being apart. Unfortunately, we instead decided to talk
to each other most days, stay in almost constant whatsapp contact and generally
behave as though he had not in fact moved hundreds of miles away. I didn't miss
him as much as I thought I would, but I did think about him a lot - I looked
forward to every contact, message or skype call, and slowly but surely began to
realise that I was no longer in a position to let go and move on.
This
realisation coincided with him inviting me to visit him in Paris. I did not
know what to think of this gesture at first - he had made it very clear that he
did not want us to continue a relationship, but his behaviour since the
day he had left England seemed to imply the complete opposite. After a few days
of quiet deliberation I agreed to visit him in Paris for 4 days, and booked my
ticket on the Eurostar. Though he had not said anything, I felt that his
invitation, coupled with his constant contact was proof that we were both
missing each other, and that maybe there was some hope for our short-lived
relationship. I boarded the Eurostar two weeks later eagerly awaiting the
moment when I would finally see him after nearly two months of separation. I was
also a little concerned that, if I were to tell him how much I had missed him
and that I wasn't ready to end our relationship, he may not feel the same way.
I pushed these thoughts to the back of my mind, and focused instead on
remembering my plans for when I arrived - I still had to trek across Paris by
myself on the metro once I arrived, and despite having taken every precaution
possible to ensure I didn't get lost, I was still very worried that I would get
mugged, kidnapped or run over in my pursuit of my French man.
One
uneventful1 metro ride later I arrived at my destination, and
started pacing the street looking for the man. I heard someone call out my
name, and turned around to see the biggest smile across the road from me. Fully
aware of how cheesy the moment was about to become, I ran across the road and
got swept up in a hug that squeezed the air out of me. All my worries fell
clean out of my head, and I spent the rest of the evening in a tangle of
laughter, kisses and exquisite cheese...
1minus seeing someone busking
with a harp - a full sized bloody harp!
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| I was delighted to discover there was a whole row of people doing this with me |
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| All smiles until I saw the size of the not-stairs queue |
The weekend played out like a cheesy romantic comedy, in which I lived the hapless
romantic dream of going up the Eiffel Tower, walking around the Louvre2,
eating delicious hand-made ice cream, watching a film about polar bears, eating
croissants off the chest of a naked man3, lounging about on the
grass at Versailles, rowing a boat on a lake surrounded by various flora, fauna
and French people, wandering around Notre Dame pretending to be a singing
gargoyle, and of course lots and lots of lovely shagging. It was the most
perfect moment of my life, and it was with a heavy heart that, on my final
night in Paris, I asked the question that would, inevitably, end it all.
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| Rowing my boat at Versailles |
2Yes I looked at the Mona
Lisa, and yes it IS much smaller than in looks in The Da Vinci Code
“What am I doing here?” Of course he didn’t understand – he knew
I was upset about something4, but perhaps wanted to pretend
everything was fine until after I had left, so as not to ruin a perfectly
acceptable evening. After three days and nights of blistering happiness, I was
rapidly sliding into a depression that would last for the rest of the visit - I
did not want to say goodbye to him again. I needed to know why he had asked me
to come to Paris. If his answer was that he had realised he was falling in love
with me and wanted to continue our relationship, even though he was moving to
Hong Kong, because I was worth the uncertainty and difficulties, then I would
finally be able to tell him that I felt the same way.
4As it happens, he had also said something at
dinner that had ticked me off, but considering I can no longer remember what it
was I was probably overreacting
Unfortunately, he told me he asked me to visit him because
he thought it would be a nice way to spend a long weekend. I don’t entirely
remember the 10 minutes that immediately followed this revelation, but I think
there was probably some crying. He was very confused by how upset I became,
because as he quite rightly pointed out, if the situation had changed he would
have told me so. He had not told me anything, and therefore nothing had changed.
He still did not want a relationship with me, and he was definitely still
moving to Hong Kong, where he intended to start a new life, without me.
By this point I had a substantial wadge of tissues stuffed
up my nose to help stem the runny nose of a broken heart. I looked horrendous,
and felt horrendous, and wanted the earth to swallow me up so that I could
escape this mortifyingly painful conversation without further delay. Then
something quite lovely happened. For all his protestations of solitude and
separation, my French man wrapped his arms around me, kissed my forehead and
told me I was still just as special and important as I had been before the
conversation. His terribly male, terribly French sensibilities were completely
out of synch with my own English female ones, and not for the first time the
language barrier between us had turned into a gulf. We lay next to each other
for the rest of the night, talking, crying, laughing, eating grapes and quietly
getting ready to say goodbye for good.
24 hours later we stood outside Gare du Nord, after the most
stressful car journey of my life. What had started as a tour of everything we
hadn’t had time to visit in Paris had turned into a race against the clock to
get to the station in time for my train. We drove the wrong way down a road
twice in rush hour traffic, and I spent 5 minutes unable to speak for fear that
I would end up stranded in Paris with a man who had, albeit very nicely, dumped
me the night before. When we finally did arrive I had 5 minutes to get through
check in and board the train. So we said good bye with a hug and kiss, I took
my case from him, and walked away.
I expected to cry, but it never happened. Every other break
up I have been through had crying in common – it’s how I know it’s definitely
happened and they won’t be calling up in a few days to ask me if I fancy some
Nando’s and a movie. Even now, several months after that day, I can’t quite cry
about it. I still feel very sad about how it turned out, exacerbated recently
by him finally moving to Hong Kong, but the tears never came. It’s probably for
the best though, as I was able to return to my real life5
without much disruption6. I haven’t returned to the dating websites yet
though. Despite some of his less pleasant qualities7 my French
man is, to date, the best boyfriend I have ever had. Because when you weigh the
pros and cons, he’s got a lovely face, and he took me up the Eiffel Tower whilst
eating a croissant. Beat that English boys!
5as opposed to my rom-com fantasy life, in which
I am played by a chubby Kate Hudson
6Drinking wine and singing ‘All By Myself’ in a
pair of fuzzy pyjamas
7I believe a man’s break-up methodology is a
quality, just like the ability to play the bagpipes, or roll cheese
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| The best ice cream in the world, eaten by the best Fanny in the world! |
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