There is, certainly, no better way to learn about a country than by integrating oneself into its culture, and perhaps no better form of integration than dating a native.  Of course, a mere scan of France’s great Enlightenment thinkers – from Rousseau to La Clos to the Marquis de Sade – provides a basis for studying the sexual mores in France, and any stroll down a modern Paris street highlights the differences between this nation and the United States.  Here, bare-breasted women ornament newsstands and metro billboards; backsides advertise skin creams and gym club memberships; and public displays of affection are practically a competition sport.  The lack of a cinema rating system attests to a greater comfort with exposing children to sexual images than in the United States, and television indicators seem a joke if you happen to have insomnia on a Sunday night and fall upon the late-night telefilm.  Although one survey quotes 16 years and 8 months as the mean age at which French teenagers lose their virginity (a whopping four months later than the average American), amorous relations are considered just another fact of human interaction.  The French are commonly bemused by Americans’ obsession with sex (the movies, television shows, and political scandals that cross the Atlantic often their primary points of reference), coexisting with what they consider a Puritanical reticence to actual indulgence in this forbidden fruit.

Despite the cultural differences, and the potential obstacles they might pose to a romantic relationship, I nonetheless harbored fantasies of falling in love during my first year in Paris.  But even before I could confront any metaphysical barriers, I was thrown off by the Napoleonic stature of many Frenchmen.  Not only were most of my classmates shorter than I, but also half as wide.  If ever I’d attempted to bestow an endearing hug on one of them, I was sure I would crush him, bringing on premature death by strangulation.  Certainly, my célibataire status could not be wholly attributed to my pudgy tummy and healthy cheeks, in startling opposition with the seductive angularity of Parisian women; but in any case my weight seemed a good excuse.

In all honesty, I had never been wholly ecstatic – as many Americans are – over the idea of ‘le French lover.’ After all, most of the specimens I came across were too small, too hooked on smoking, too caught up in their studies and la galère of a student budget to bear any resemblance to my knight in shining armor.  Besides, at nineteen or twenty, most youngsters were already in serious, long-term relationships.  Many couples my own age lived together – in a nod to both France’s widespread acceptance of unwedded cohabitation, as well as the practicality of sharing rent in Paris.

Perhaps it was because of this lukewarm interest in dating a native that I would wait until my second visit to France for a rendezvous.  It was during the summer, in a smoky brasserie off the Place de la Bastille.  Michel was tall and thin and wore wire-rimmed glasses.  He worked in informatique, that vast and unromantic world of computers, and he deepened my sense of disappointment with every word he uttered.  Devoutly Catholic, his traditional sensibilities and simple manners oozed judgmentalism, and promised monotony in any sort of long-term relationship.  Grease dribbled down his chin as he slurped up his moules-frites, and droned on about the advantages of Belgian beer. 

Nibbling my sandwich, I retreated into the sanctuary of my own imagination, and tried to block out Michel’s shining chin.  I let him pay for my meal, after the requisite protest.  Then I gave him la bise – one peck on each cheek – and went off on my merry, solitary way, knowing it would be the last time I’d see him.

That summer, there were also calls from Ed – the rollerblader I’d met on the Noctambus the night I missed the last metro.  We went skating together once or twice, but he failed to make any effort at enunciating his quick, slang-ridden speech, despite my obvious discomfort at constantly asking him to repeat himself.  My frustration reached its limit the day he invited me to a Japanese comic exhibition, and abandoned me for his internet chat friends shortly after arrival.  By the end of the summer I had returned to New York with no greater understanding of the inner-workings of the world of gallic dating.

But those preliminary observations seemed to pay off, and a foray into French romance seemed imminent upon my return to Paris, whereupon I commenced a flirtatious letter exchange with my across-the-hall neighbor.  But the mysterious appearance of a plate of baguette and cheese was the anticlimactic culmination of this exchange, whereafter Charles seemed to disappear into oblivion.  My girlfriends were certain that my sarcastic repartees had indicated hostility, and wondered how I hoped to catch anyone with my vinegar-twinged comments.  "This isn’t New York," they reminded me.  In any case, I decided it was for the better, and suspicions that my telephone conversations were being eavesdropped made me grateful for being single.

During the winter months, I resigned myself to watching the comings and goings of couples and lovers in other apartments, keeping track of spats, and finding relief in my weekly brunches with my girlfriends.  In purely American style, the three of us would plan our outings a week or two in advance, then meet to exchange tales of sentimental woe and professional battles, always generous in both offering and asking for advice.  Yet although this friendship was delightful, it did not erase our desire for male companionship.

When I finally did meet an acceptable Frenchman (good-looking, sensitive, and only an inch or two shorter than I), dating came with all the baggage of my American identity.  Before our second evening together I was rolling my eyes at allusions to "American puritanicalism," not to mention the nonsense some ignoramus had supplied my poor Breton (who had never met a Jewish girl) about "something called JAPs." (I took a few moments to explain why this term was unacceptable, then invited Fabrice to feel the crown of my head, thus proving the absence of horns.) One afternoon, I came across an article describing the single New York woman, à la Sex in the City.  According to the author, this was a predatory species, completely pragmatic and organized concerning matters of the heart.  This peculiar creature was said to approach dating with the same rigid forethought with which business meetings are planned.  Despite Fabrice’s chuckle, I could tell he was not sure what to think, and I realized that I was equally unsure about what to make of him.

After all, I was hardly amused by 3:30 a.m. phone calls, and the quickness with which we had become "un couple" rather suffocated me.  With only two months remaining in the City of Lights, traveling and indulging in solitary walks suddenly seemed more important than late-night plans for a drink.  The actual physical presence of another – with his own thoughts and feelings and demands – I realized, had become an impediment to my romantic fantasies.  And so our relationship fizzled out as sure as it had started.

Certainly, my waning interest cannot be blamed entirely – if at all – on cultural differences, but rather on the simple fact that this was simply not "la bonne personne." Still, I am glad to have forayed, if only briefly, into the much talked about world of French romance.  Perhaps this education has allowed me to understand this nation a little better.  In any case, for just a few weeks, I was able to view from within this culture, which continues to celebrate "la différence" between the sexes; where a stranger’s comment to a woman may still be considered a compliment; and where, in case of dire emergency, boxy-looking machines outside pharmacies and metro stations dispense condoms – even when the rest of the city is closed for business – 24 hours a day, 365 days a year.

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