I had spent a short morning on the new TGV line from Strasbourg, zipping over to Paris at a cool 575 km/h. If you’re American handicapped, that’s just under 360 miles / hour. Which is about what my mom does into the office every morning.
I arrived into Gare de l’est with no idea where I was, where I needed to be, or how to get there. So, I grabbed a café au lait and a fresh baked good full of chocolate, and eye-balled all the young French women within eye-shot. ‘Cause they nice ‘n shit.
We eventually found the Metro, hopped on the #5 down to Place d’Italie, and caught the #6 over to Bir-Hakeim, the last stop before the Seine. Exiting the station didn’t find me in the most overwhelming of views until I crossed Boulevard de Grenelle and walked around to the corner of Rue de la Federation. Home to the Australian Embassy and what would be our luxurious tri-level 4-bedroom apartment for a few days. With accompanying view off the Grand Living Room:
It’s a short walk down the block to the security gate where I’m supposed to do my secret buzzing thing. I do. And am told off by the guard. Who sounds oddly French for the embassy of Australia. But I make a few phone calls and patiently wait as our hostess comes downstairs. While doing so, I take a seat on the concrete step supporting the gate.
I had previously noticed a shiny black A-series Mercedes pull up and park in the middle of the street directly across from me. I didn’t give it a second thought because that’s what the French do. They park in the street, take an apathetic, arrogant attitude, and then go on strike. But this time I looked up. And the driver, holding up a map, called me over.
A clean-cut, strikingly handsome man he was. Italiano. From Milano. Donned a well pressed light blue dress shirt, dark pin-striped pants with matching jacket in the back seat, and a light beige / dark brown tie crisply taught around his neck. Windsor knot. They’re a bitch. Ok. I don’t really know what kind of knot it was. I’m a cargo pants and fleece guy.
So the story goes like this: Having just finished putting on a fashion show and needing to head down to Nice for the next one, his credit card was just rejected and he’s panicked that he doesn’t have enough cash for gas for his rental car and French tolls. It was early Saturday afternoon and of course his bank is closed, dashing any chance of opening up his card. But here’s where he got me. Besides his dreamy eyes and Italian accent. He genuinely seemed embarrassed for asking and was visibly uncomfortable.
I tend to pride myself on my ability to read people and I’ve been known to make some pretty sound and accurate judgements. But this time I think it was more the excitement of being in Paris for the first time and coming off a clean trip from Italy, this man’s home country. Also, I don’t recall the last time I actually did something nice for somebody.
Now my initial intention was to fill up his tank with gas, which I was more than willing to do. So I get in the car and we drive around the corner and down the block to the Total station. But I must’ve misunderstood. He doesn’t need any gas. He just picked up his rental car so the tank is full. I know it’s a rental because of the countless trademark Europcar stickers everywhere. Also, it’s impeccably clean. Cleaner than any Italian man would EVER keep his car. He needs cash for the next fill up. Oh, and tolls.
Now things be getting kinda shady. So I bust out the math:
Italian. Seems coincidental.
Heading to Nice. Where I still have some emotional ties.
His demeanour. Steady but uncomfortable.
Size. Smaller than I.
And in the end, it’s obvious that on any other day, this man clearly doesn’t need money.
I can’t quite tell you why I did it, but I gave him 200 €.
As a gesture of appreciation he gives me the few remaining display items from his show. A dark pin-striped Gianfranco suit, which ironically fits my 6’5” frame. A new LA Sartoria black leather jacket. Which also perfectly fits my man frame. Along with a beautiful woman’s mid-length black leather jacket with belt. Which is the right size for you-know-who.
Then he kisses me on both cheeks and takes me home.
There’s a part of me that feels I should’ve blown him.
I arrived into Gare de l’est with no idea where I was, where I needed to be, or how to get there. So, I grabbed a café au lait and a fresh baked good full of chocolate, and eye-balled all the young French women within eye-shot. ‘Cause they nice ‘n shit.
We eventually found the Metro, hopped on the #5 down to Place d’Italie, and caught the #6 over to Bir-Hakeim, the last stop before the Seine. Exiting the station didn’t find me in the most overwhelming of views until I crossed Boulevard de Grenelle and walked around to the corner of Rue de la Federation. Home to the Australian Embassy and what would be our luxurious tri-level 4-bedroom apartment for a few days. With accompanying view off the Grand Living Room:
It’s a short walk down the block to the security gate where I’m supposed to do my secret buzzing thing. I do. And am told off by the guard. Who sounds oddly French for the embassy of Australia. But I make a few phone calls and patiently wait as our hostess comes downstairs. While doing so, I take a seat on the concrete step supporting the gate.
I had previously noticed a shiny black A-series Mercedes pull up and park in the middle of the street directly across from me. I didn’t give it a second thought because that’s what the French do. They park in the street, take an apathetic, arrogant attitude, and then go on strike. But this time I looked up. And the driver, holding up a map, called me over.
A clean-cut, strikingly handsome man he was. Italiano. From Milano. Donned a well pressed light blue dress shirt, dark pin-striped pants with matching jacket in the back seat, and a light beige / dark brown tie crisply taught around his neck. Windsor knot. They’re a bitch. Ok. I don’t really know what kind of knot it was. I’m a cargo pants and fleece guy.
So the story goes like this: Having just finished putting on a fashion show and needing to head down to Nice for the next one, his credit card was just rejected and he’s panicked that he doesn’t have enough cash for gas for his rental car and French tolls. It was early Saturday afternoon and of course his bank is closed, dashing any chance of opening up his card. But here’s where he got me. Besides his dreamy eyes and Italian accent. He genuinely seemed embarrassed for asking and was visibly uncomfortable.
I tend to pride myself on my ability to read people and I’ve been known to make some pretty sound and accurate judgements. But this time I think it was more the excitement of being in Paris for the first time and coming off a clean trip from Italy, this man’s home country. Also, I don’t recall the last time I actually did something nice for somebody.
Now my initial intention was to fill up his tank with gas, which I was more than willing to do. So I get in the car and we drive around the corner and down the block to the Total station. But I must’ve misunderstood. He doesn’t need any gas. He just picked up his rental car so the tank is full. I know it’s a rental because of the countless trademark Europcar stickers everywhere. Also, it’s impeccably clean. Cleaner than any Italian man would EVER keep his car. He needs cash for the next fill up. Oh, and tolls.
Now things be getting kinda shady. So I bust out the math:
Italian. Seems coincidental.
Heading to Nice. Where I still have some emotional ties.
His demeanour. Steady but uncomfortable.
Size. Smaller than I.
And in the end, it’s obvious that on any other day, this man clearly doesn’t need money.
I can’t quite tell you why I did it, but I gave him 200 €.
As a gesture of appreciation he gives me the few remaining display items from his show. A dark pin-striped Gianfranco suit, which ironically fits my 6’5” frame. A new LA Sartoria black leather jacket. Which also perfectly fits my man frame. Along with a beautiful woman’s mid-length black leather jacket with belt. Which is the right size for you-know-who.
Then he kisses me on both cheeks and takes me home.
There’s a part of me that feels I should’ve blown him.
