We watch the tourists and locals mix and mingle. I get a chance to practice my French when we buy baguettes, cheese, wine, grapes, sausage, milk and a bag of cereal. I already miss the Kellogg’s Special K Protein cereal I usually have every morning. We have a little kitchenette in our apartment, and the tiniest washroom I’ve ever seen.
I try to make out the conversations around me but fail miserably. The men here are cute, but a little too fashionable for me. What’s with all the scarves? Oscar is wearing dark jeans, a white tee, and a black leather jacket. And he’s unshaven, like most of the men here. I don’t fail to notice the looks he’s getting from the French ladies — apparently, they like what they see. They aresoflirty. I suddenly find myself very possessive of him.
I wrap my arm around his.He’s mine. Back off, you French hussies.
We go back to our apartment to make a charcuterie plater, and take a breather… so many people in this city.
We take our phones and venture to the Pont des Arts, where local artisans sell their wares, and street performers entertain the tourists for money. Corrie poses beside the silver statue man. He winks at her when she leaves.
“Looks like you’ve already snagged yourself a Frenchman,” Oscar teases.
She grins. “He is pretty cute. I like silver men, but I prefer the gold ones.”
My heart practically leaps out of my chest when a disheveled Frenchman grabs my arm. “Come with me. I will draw you.”
“No… no, it’s okay.”
“You must sit for me.”
“I’m okay. I don’t want—”
“You are beautiful, and I must draw you.”
Well, in that case…
I glance over at Oscar and Corrie, a silent plea for help, but they just laugh at me. Despite my objections, I find myself sitting for this very scary man. He busies himself with his chalk pencils, his arms dance as his dark eyes study me intently. I get excited at the thought of being drawn. I’ve never been sketched before. I decide that I will frame and hang my portrait over the fireplace in my living room. When I have guests over, I will just say casually, ‘That’s a portrait I had done by a talented local artist when I was in Paris.’ It will be perfect.
I wonder how much this will cost.
A minute later, he’s done.
Wow, that was fast.
He hands me the drawing with a toothless smile. I’m appalled — I look hideous. It’s one of those caricatures, the kinds that exaggerate all your distinctive features, aka your flaws. My nose is bulbous, my ears stick out, and my two front teeth are ginormous. And there are about a million freckles on my cheeks. Yet, itdoeslook like me. And he did do a great job on my clothes — I look like a fashionable cartoon bunny. I suddenly feel self-conscious about my big teeth, my nose, and my freckles. And my ears. Thanks a lot, buddy.
“That will be fifty euro, please.”
I almost choke on my own disappointment. Is he freaking kidding me?
“It’s too much,” I tell him.
“It is fifty euro, please.”
“But you didn’t even tell me how much it would be—”
“It is fifty euro,” he repeats, this time a little more forcefully. “I work very hard.”
Fifty euros, that’s like… sixty dollars. “It took you about five minutes.”
Corrie and Oscar step in, and take a closer look. They both burst into laughter.
“Thanks a lot, guys. I’m so glad I could entertain you. He wants fifty euros for this shit.”
Their eyes grow wide. “No fucking way,” Oscar says.
Disheveled Frenchman is getting impatient now. “Fifty euro now, please. I have many other customers.”
There’s no one else around. “How about twenty euro?” I ask.
“Forty,” he says.
I debate this for a second. “Thirty.”
“Forty,” he repeats.
Corrie digs into her purse and hands him ten euro. “This is what you’re getting, buddy, and it’s more than you deserve.” She’s about half his size, but she looks like she could blow his head off any minute. He’s speechless and takes the money.
And to think, I was going to hang this in my living room. I stare at the drawing and I want to cry. I’m so focused on the very unflattering rendition, I almost step in dog shit… Oscar warns me just in time.
Yep… I hate Paris.
