Romance in France (and Other Misadventures)

I think that many people harbor grand fantasies of France, but our first day wasn't exactly a banner day for us here, short of one major plus, dinner with wonderful Ivory Coast native "Mama Africa" at her restaurant. (We returned the next night for more mafe and chicken, onions, and rice, and so that Garret could get another much-anticipated kiss on the cheek.)

We arrived in Marseille Tuesday evening after a very long day of travel, and had many misdventures since crossing the Monaco-France border. Right off the start, about ten minutes into the country, the four of us spread out in two train seats apiece, since the car wasn't crowded. My seats had another two facing me, and the guys were all behind me. Soon, a man wearing an Italian soccer jacket came and sat across from me and asked, "English?" I nodded, and he shrugged and replied, "French."

A minute or two passed as I was reading a book, when suddenly he looked at me and announced, "You...are...fantastic!" I smiled politely and was returning to my book, when suddenly, he appeared right in front of my face, aiming for a kiss! In the time allowed, I could think of no better line of defense than to simply shove my copy of The Time Traveler's Wife between us, praying in that brief moment, God, don't let this strange man's potentially herpes-infected lips touch my fingers or my book. (They narrowly missed.)

My three male traveling companions sat behind me, somewhat obliviously, so I called out, "umm... male travel companions?" At this they all sprang--belatedly but heroically--to their feet, leaving my would-be suitor to point at all of them, then me, in turn and then declare, finger pointed at my face, "You...are...stupid!" and storm out of the car.

We then watched him sit down next to another blonde in the next car, implementing what were probably similar tactics, until rejection came calling again mere moments later.

I was accompanied at all times by a "male travel companion" for the rest of the journey, which was wise since that particular train appeared to be full of carnie-types. Garret has since repeatedly told me how proud he was that I didn't cry, knowing my propensity to do so in unusual situations.

If that wasn't enough of a day for us, we had another incident on the way to dinner. Kevin was walking at the back of our group on the way to Mama Africa's, and came in the restaurant fighting mad, telling us that someone had tried to lift his wallet just outside the door. He caught them at the last moment, jerked away, and caused the pickpocketer to run away. He's been checking his pockets obsessively ever since.

On our way home that night, we had one last special moment, but this one good for a needed laugh: the bursting open of a bungee-corded cooler on the back of a delivery boy's Vespa, the spillage of several pizza boxes onto the street, the subsequent scooping up and repackaging of the boxes that came open, and finally, the driver speeding off, presumably to his originally intended destination since he did not turn around.

So, in review: carry a large book at all times, keep your wallet in the front pocket, and don't order pizza in France.