the café diaries: so secretly it made my day, but…

(an article I recovered from the post-apocalyptic, technical mess!)

Sophomore year, 15-16 years old, in Paris with my class.

We had all been just settled a day in our quaint, 2-star hotel (or motel?) and set out to a small town within the city… cobbled streets, open fish and vegetable markets, and exchanges of “‘Bonjour!’ ‘Good Day!’ ‘How is your family!’” All very small provincial town-like sans Belle and singing bakers. Our sexy British tour guide led us into an Americanized restaurant tucked behind said farmer’s market and let us decide between les haumburgers au fromage or les hot-dogs, all served avec des frites.

With Coke, of course.

Somewhere along the line of ordering (hot dogs for me, if you were curious), one girl decided she needed to visit the ladies’ room. You know how girls get – females go to the bathroom in pairs or a hyena pack. Never alone. The male race accredits it to our need to gossip and share Lip Smackers; that sounds just about right. Anyway, since one girl got up, her friend did too, and you know how the rest goes. I managed to force out a barely comprehensible “Où est les toilettes, monsieur?” – I had been deemed the official translator and spokesperson of the group – and pointed giggly American high school girls towards the toilettes. I trailed behind the pack since the loo was over capacity, and was left outside to stand awkwardly between crowded tables. I managed to smile.

“Excusez-moi mademoiselle.”

I whipped around. A table of three businessmen in tailored suits grinned at me. “Vous êtes très, très  belle.”

My 15/16-year-old self was taken aback and slightly creeped.“Uh, merci monsieur.”

“You arrrre Amerrrrican, non?” The rolling r’s sounded borderline leering.

“Oui. Yes.” At least I wasn’t wearing tennis shoes.

“A very pretty one. You are beauuuteeful.” The three men laughed, swigging a sip of their scotch. They were showing off – clearly – their bilingual-ity. The same man continued. “You are Chinese, oui?”

“Yes…oui.“

He smirked and told me he had knack for telling apart Asian ethnicities, but he was blown away by my beauty. He told me I was beautiful. Yet again. This time, in Mandarin Chinese.

This time he was really showing off.

.   .   .

the café diaries: part ii

… a continuation of part i of the café diaries…

Here I am, still scrawling illegibly into my notebook, watching a guy tap his sneakers to piano and trumpets, checking Facebook every few seconds. It’s my idea of Perez, only, nothing. Ever. Happens.

I’m not really a fan of gossip, anywho. More observations – a continuation from my previous entry – via people watching and mild eavesdropping:

{+} College romances are silly. I am a realist. Or cynic? Take your pick.

{+} There are a lot of people who look around aimlessly. Perhaps that’s why so many college kids smoke – they’re so bored they start that up. To occupy time. And their hands. I thought that’s what texting was for…?

… and I am no longer in my little corner. Currently sitting in a monotonous, kind of useless lecture, making my presence there productive:

{+} I’ve come to realize that I find boys who write in cursive to be attractive. Sexy, even. Since I’ve made the correlation that cursive writers are typically artistic, creative, and more sensitive.

{+} I need an inconspicuous thing in which to write. I love a beautifully-bound journal, but I feel snobbish toting it around. A composition notebook, perhaps? Ugh, they’re so unattractive though, and remind of the days pre-college ruled, lined paper.

{+} One black bra strap + a revealed [left] shoulder & décolletage have become my signature for night classes.

{+} The one interesting thing gathered from the otherwise boring lecture: the gaze is the idea of looking, and being looked at.Interesting. A woman who looks – or gazes, rather – invites intimacy. She invites a challenge. It is an invitation where the RSVP is unnecessary. It’s a demand.

Just stuff to think about.

. . .

bises! x

the café diaries: part i

Sometimes I’m so inspired to write, I can’t think of anything to write at all. You would think, wouldn’t you, that sitting in some café – Au Bon Pain, specifically – sipping [the now empty] iced coffee with one sugar and soy milk, accompanied by a powdered chocolat croissantwould be enough. There’s even a lovely selection of Starbucks-esque, or “Easy Listening” as dubbed by iTunes, songs playing in the background: Michael Bublé, pre-mainstream radio.

(The croissant looked much prettier than it tasted. I was slightly disappointed.)

I claim the back corners, always. I’d mark it with my pheromones if it wasn’t so animalistic and socially awkward. Perhaps a whiff of my signature scent, Versace Bright Crystal, would have been sufficient, but you never know these days – my school bag (and brown paper bag holding the offending croissant) are my placeholder. The back corner, the one against the rain-speckled windows, is my space for the whatever hour or so I have remaining before the walk to my next class.

I decide I like walking.

I also like people-watching. From the back corner – my back corner – of the café. Here is where my observations, à la Harriet the Spy (sans the gossip) go unnoticed. I’m just another girl in a coffee shop, inconspicuous in the crowd of coffee and pastry lovers (except this one time when casting agents from Abercrombie & Fitch approached me with a modeling offer, hellooo, ego boost!). I’m but a girl in ABP writing, checking something on her Macbook incessantly, nibbling on fancy French carbs that look better than they taste (I’m all about aesthetics, but looks can be – and are – deceiving). Little do they know I’m glancing through my fringe, my mascara-laced lashes, up from sips of coffee, over the top of my laptop, watching. LIstening. Writing. Repeat.

But then I see the people watching me back. Inquisitive boys, looking. Peeking, taking lances. A few years ago I would have been embarrassed to even meet eyes. Today, though, I hold the gaze, smiling coyly from the left side of my mouth. Most look away, flushed. Few approach my little corner. I’ve been told I’m intimidating by strangers and friends alike – it’s just the set up of notebooks, large coffees, and my open laptop that look like a barricade. Brownie points in the little black book for the brave soldiers who dare to approach.

Yes, they can have my number.

. . .

bises! x