The Catalan would be back in Paris in a few weeks. But a lot can happen in a few weeks, and in my case last summer, more than a lot, more like a landslide. With the Mexican moving in, the Film Guy hesitantly wavering in the background (like extra lazily hanging around ready for his 10 second part), did the Catalan have the chance to slide in and replace them both??
Dear Tigresse, Are you there this weekend or shall we then meet on the 24th when I am back? Lots of affectionate greetings! Besos the Catalan
His return date fell on the day after I’d wanted to talk to the Mexican about “us” (for newcomers see this blog) and since that conversation never materialized, my conviction that our non-relationship was really going nowhere intensified. I still had my roomie for a few more days, yet that didn’t mean that I could go out on a date for the evening. This scenario was even more advantageous in my “how to rope in a Catalan” experiment. The Mexican being there would mean that I definitely had to go home and couldn’t be tempted by any offers of eye drops, his heart etc. that might be found in his hotel room…
We met up a little later than the last time, around 9 pm. Once again it was a beautiful sunny evening (could this be a good sign?) and so we savored some crisp wine on a terrace cozily nestled a little square and caught up on each other’s news. Ummm, well some news, I left out some specific details such as who my “house guest” really was. This time, the ambiance of our encounter was much more “date.”
After our glasses of wine, we took a wander towards the nearby rue Montorgueil, an area I love. He’d never been to this area, and was enchanted by its quaint cobblestone charm. Quintessentially Paris and très très romantique. We were walking slowly and quite close to one another… was he getting even closer… to take my hand? To steal a kiss?
Our perfectly romantic evening continued with our next stop, a secret cocktail bar, hidden on a dimly-lit side street. Its tiny size, low lighting and plush sofas evoke a sophisticated maison close. The only available seats were shared with another group, me on the sofa, the Catalan beside me in an armchair. Again, Paris and I were captivating the Catalan, he was completely marveled at the déroulement of our evening. Nearing the end of our first cocktail, the place next to me opened up and he deftly glided over filling the void by my side.
He ordered us two more drinks and started asking personal questions. He started with some basic ones such as my age, I in turn asked him his (45, a tad older than I thought he was and borderline older than I would normally go for…). He prodded around for information regarding my dating history, I replied vaguely saying there was a complicated story about to be ending. He told me about the German woman that he had lived with for a number of years. At some point his arm curled around my shoulders and his words came to a whisper against my ear. Good thing it was dark in there, my burning cheeks would have certainly deceived me. What to do! Here I was, being wooed by an attractive debonair man, but what about the Mexican? What about the Film Guy?? Deep down in my heart I knew that they were both pathetic losers (in their own separate ways), but was I really into the Catalan or merely lapping up the admiration and affection after having little or none for the other garçons? One thing was for sure, I had the Catalan firmly wrapped around my little finger.
Our date ended shortly after his first delicate kisses to my earlobe (my surely bright red ear). We walked arm in arm towards the metro, he didn’t want to let me go, but I did have to get back to my “house guest” (Note: the Mexican was asleep when I got home but the next morning he was trying to retain his curiosity as to what I had been up to the night before, his insecurity coming through… with reason!).
I still had the upper hand with the Catalan. He was craving more, but he would have to be patient. He was in luck, the wait wouldn’t be too long, as I was going to Barcelona for an extended stay for work and he would be there near the end of my stay. We excitedly made plans for him to show me around on the Costa Brava, an area along the coast north of Barcelona. Ohhh a romantic getaway, that’s exactly what I needed after getting rid of the Mexican… and let the Catalan win over my heart.
As my travel date approached the Catalan even suggested that he could arrange a free chauffeured car to pick me up from the airport. Arriving in class! That would be nice, but when I hadn’t heard from him in a couple of days, I arranged my own free chauffeur from a company we worked with. My little trip was going to start off in the right way, it was going to be a wonderful séjour full of discover and surprises… but little did I know, just to what degree!
Catalunya here I come!