Salut mes lecteurs assidus (quel humour, je me kiffe. Ca en fait au moins une, hein!)
Deuxième épisode de la saga "j'écris dans The Scottish Independent". Cette fois là je me penchais sur le French Lover, mythe ou réalité?
Rien d'autre à ajouter, sinon que j'apprécierai(s) toujours autant les avis, commentaires, opinions et suggestions.
Oh mon chéri-chéri!
I feel so blessed to be a French woman you know.
Because as far as love is concerned I know I’ve always been confronted to la crème de la crème.
Do the words “French lover” mean something to you? If so you must understand how lucky I am.
First the burning issue: our world famous French kiss. (Because you’re anxious to know about it. Don’t deny it). Let’s put it clear right away: the French (of both sexes) don’t even imagine how it’s possible to properly kiss without the tongue. That’s why we find it so funny when in foreign movies girls are head over heels because “he put the tongue”. Well, sure he did. He’d better.
But please, don’t imagine that we’re making soupe de langues (tongue soup, a romantic french expression) all the time and with anybody. We do kiss on the cheeks, to say hello, but when seduction is involved, there’s dating, flirting, or should I say courtship first.
Let’s figure out a typical french heterosexual couple: Pierre and Mathilde.
They meet, like 80% of the couples in the world, in a cosy bar or a discotheque. Pierre buys a drink or two to Mathilde, and compliments her on her eyes, smile, looks. Then they get deep in conversation about their literary tastes, food, wines, travels, vision of life.
Or, more probably, they’re both blind drunk and the music is so loud that they can’t talk, so they go directly to step 2: kissing (French kisses there!) and groping on a couch. Then Pierre takes his lady to the back of his car where they have unprotected sex. Finally they both puke on each other’s shoes and bye bye!
Luckily they’ve exchanged their “06” (06 being the first two numbers of mobile phones in France) so Pierre rings Mathilde the day after and asks her out. He picks her up at her place with a bouquet of red roses, and takes her to a fine restaurant, where they have a gourmet dinner. Then Pierre walks Mathilde home, putting gently his jacket on her shoulders when she’s cold and holding her hand at crosswalks. For their next dates, they’ll go to the cinema, ballet or have lovely picnics in parks.
Or rather…When the chick (what’s her name already?) -after three days sitting by the phone waiting for a life sign of her chéri_ finally calls, Pierre has completely forgotten who she is, but since he has no other plan, he suggests they could have a Big Mac together. On her way to the fancy restaurant, Mathilde hears lots of compliments from youngsters, like “hey Mademoiselle, you’re so very charming, frankly I could make love to you right here on the pavement”. After the, ahem, meal, Pierre brings Mathilde to his place where he spends the night playing video games with his mates. For their next dates, they’ll go to the bowling, she’ll watch him play football in the cold or they’ll stay at his place, eating pizzas, drinking Ricard for apéro and…watching football on TV.
But things are now getting serious for our romantic couple.
So Pierre buys his beloved girlfriend a classy and elegant ring and proposes to her kneeling down under a beautiful green oak symbolizing their love. Then they passionately kiss and go to Mathilde ’s parents where Pierre formally asks her hand to her father, with his “fresh butter” gloves on.
(There, I have to disappoint you all, fans of zee French lover. Because actually the above concepts are totally estranged to the French in general: engagement (hence the engagement ring) and kneeling to propose, well, we never do that. Boys would find it ridiculous and girls would be embarrassed. It’s so old-fashioned.)
No. When Pierre and Mathilde feel comfortable enough with each other (after the four or five first years of fights, breakups and reconciliations) one of them is more likely to say “why don’t we get married, I feel like having a party/ wearing a nice dress?” They pick a date, tell their parents and friends, and after the ceremony they celebrate with a generally bad dinner served in a balloons and crepe paper garlands decorated gymnasium while a lousy DJ plays uncool music.
You’ve certainly guessed that there’s no emotional send-off to any exotic honeymoon. Maybe later. For now, the newly-weds go to bed, where they’ll be woken up at dawn with a soupe à l’oignon and a horrendous mixture made of Nutella, ketchup and water, a tampon floating in it. Could you imagine something more romantic?
Afterwards come all the wonders of married couple life. Love, compromises and sometimes lies, snoring and farting at night, forgetting birthdays and anniversaries…
French guys are just regular men you see. Sorry to disappoint you.
But wait a minute. Now that I come to think of it, I’ve had a boyfriend who did take me to nice restaurants, watch romantic comedies and sunsets on the ocean with me. We talked and laughed a lot together,
And when I was cold he would actually take his jumper off to put it on my shoulders. He also opened the doors for me, climbed the stairs first in order not to see under my skirt, immediately noticed a new haircut or piece of garment. Things like that. He was a real gentleman.
Too bad he turned out to be gay.
Voili voilou! A bientôt mes poux en kilt!
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