|Ludicrous. And I'm not just talking about the price.|
Maybe I would have considered it if he had more teeth.
So I'm in the park today trying to shove my way through writing my three journal pages when a man sits down next to me. He has a suitcase and an Italian hat. I know it's Italian. I'm a girl that knows things like this.
He asks me the tried and true travelers question, "Where are you from?"
He's from Italy.
He asks in french. I understand him when he speaks in french. This is exciting. This is my downfall.
We talk a bit. He's on his way to Geneva. He has a late train. Yadda yadda. He muddles through his french and I muddle through mine. I find it easier to talk with other learners of the language. We all talk like five year olds.
Where do you live? What do you do? Do you like Ricky Schroeder? So do I?
Shit like this.
Anyway. He asks if I'm here alone.
That's the second traveler question.
"No I'm not," I say. I have a copain. And he's just up the street at the butcher shop so lay off, Guido.
"Are you happy?"
"Yes I'm very content."
"He must be very happy with you, too." Then he proceeds to go on in all the french words he knows about my belle body and my belle face. All this is fine and good, I suppose. Hey, I like compliments. Hey, I get that we both have a limited diction and we say what we can with the words that we have. Hey, I get that we're all just trying to get through our days and he's looking to put in time before his train. Hey, I get it. I'm down with it. I'm cool. I follow.
But then he goes on to ask me if I want Italian love today or French love. And then, because I looked at him like I didn't understand, he used HAND GESTURES to convey his meaning.
This is the point where I did not follow. But I knew what he was saying.
Are you kidding me with this, Guido?
And because of the time it takes to figure out the language, I probably looked like I was considering this option when really I was just piecing together what he had said.
Non merci. Non merci. Je suis content. Non, non. Merci, mais non.
Then I had to bid him farewell in a strange Franglishitaliano flutter of words.
I just don't know how to navigate the flirtatious dudes here. And by here I mean Europe. This language barrier makes it more problematic. As I got up, he was asking me what the problem was. I was very beautiful, after all, why shouldn't we have a roll in the hay? (And by roll in the hay, he repeated the hand gestures.)
Seriously, dude. Vraiment?!
How about BECAUSE I DON'T WANT TO AND YOU HAVE NO TEETH. How about that? Is that a good enough reason for you because it sure as shit is a good enough reason for me. I don't even need a butcher boyfriend up the street who'll knock your block off to know that I don't want your Italian lovin' this afternoon. Okay buddy? Okay!?!?!?!?
But I didn't say that. I walked on and swiftly to the door of my building and shut it tight behind me.
And I love Italians. No. I love my Italians... well, my Romans. These two and this one. But I don't love you, Guido. Non. Non merci. Non. Absolument non.
Fer eff sakes.