By RJG

Hi again Dear Reader.

I appreciate your patience.

So, back to the pub. When I got there, I discovered that the rugby match I’d stumbled on wasn’t some little local affair. It was France vs New Zealand.

As I was completely unaware of this sport, I had no idea that this was the sort of match that packs people into pubs. They were spilling out onto the sidewalks. I hesitated about going inside, but I was already there, no sense in backtracking.

I made my way to the bar and started the naive American girl act – a set of behaviors which we can discuss later – that has held me in good stead when I want information or to get away with something. But, to be honest, it wasn’t much of an act at this point, I’d only been in France 3.5 months out of my whole life. I had no choice but to ask stupid questions and cause some serious eye-rolling.

The first bartender simply did not have the time (or the patience, I think) to explain something as basic to life as rugby to another American girl who didn’t have the good sense to already know about it. He wasn’t rude, but it was clear that he just couldn’t be bothered. The second, younger, was happy to have an audience and started explaining things – making sure I understood that the English national team was, of course, the best. This attitude did not sit well with the unfairly unattractive New Zealander standing next to me, who had to put in his two cents. Every two minutes.

By the end of the match, I’d met a third, American bartender – a woman who kept an eye on my drink & double-checked that another new acquaintance, an older gentleman, wasn’t getting too friendly. He wasn’t at all. Actually, I was having a blast. Sure, I hadn’t planned on some guy telling me all about his grandchildren, but I’d gotten off my duff and started to enjoy my new neighborhood. Plus, I’d found a great substitute for my American football cravings.

Then, suddenly, the oddest thing happened. They started playing Suavemente. This was clearly a sign.

Apart from my job, there was one thing I used to do in Florida that I enjoyed. (Yes, it was that sad. I loved my work & that was pretty much it. Everything else was crap, except salsa.) Before moving to France, I went salsa dancing at least once a week. I’d been going for almost two years, and in my two months in France, I’d been so busy looking for a place to live and trying to get my life in order that I hadn’t had the time to start up again.

But who would have expected to be standing in an English Pub in Paris, France, and suddenly start hearing Suavemente? Certainly not the girl who just as suddenly found herself dancing. With a man she hadn’t seen before.

I’m sure, dear readers, that some of you might find this hard to believe. One minute I’m talking to an old chap, the next I’m dancing salsa with a stranger. With glasses. And red hair. And, most surprisingly of all, rhythm!

Over his shoulder, the chap looked just as astonished as I was. Then the red-head spun me out. I almost ran into a table, which was moved out of the way at the last second. People started clearing chairs and tables out of the way to make a dance  floor for us. He dipped me, he turned me, he didn’t miss a beat. I kept up, but I couldn’t keep my jaw off the floor. His glasses flew off twice. He was unconcerned. When the song came to an end and he dipped me one final time, there was applause.

Just as I was catching my breath one of his friends ran over and whispered to me, “We call him zee dancing fool.” And then he ran away again.

Four years later, that same friend was his best man at our wedding.

Glad I didn’t stay home with the dog.

RJG – An American living in Paris, I work with words. Very happily married to a Frenchman, cultural (mis)interpretations have become my everyday. This blog will hopefully give you a laugh & let me vent 😉  Her blog could be found at http://lifelikeinparis.com/