I remembered thinking about this the first day I was in Paris, but I forgot by the end of the evening. Sitting in the cool air at a sidewalk cafe on a delightful spring evening (and, more importantly, watching people walk by), I remember. I DEFINITELY remember.
But I must preface this, I like to think that I am not one of those girls obsessed with evaluating the aesthetic value of every guy I see, but I am just another flawed human and Parisian boys are hot! Different than British boys and far removed from anything an American boy could ever be. They all look slightly hipster-chic and very much like Bob Dylan, hair, tight jeans, wayfarers. I support their look entirely. They have a nonchalant swagger (I say swagger, but in no way do they have the slow trudge of dragging feet that American boys do when they pitch their weight backwards over a preferred shoulder and nod their head.) that hints that there just might be a well-worn paperback of Montaigne or Rousseau rolled up in one of their pockets. Like British boys, they naturally exude more intelligence than I have even seen in a boy in America. Theirs, though, is not one of histories and Eton learning, it seems to be inherently more skeptical, investing in the intricacies of language and literature and inherently more romantic.
I should stop myself. I fear my fantasies are merely superimposing themselves on the visions I see. I’m looking at them just like a flaneur or construction worker on lunch break watching women go by. (That, however, is a completely OTHER topic. London construction workers should be in a league of gentlemen all their own. I shall speak of that another day, though.) To simply consider boys aesthetic pieces for my enjoyment is demeaning and sexist, but oh the boy that just bicycled past was cuuuuutttteeeeeeee. :))
If I had more French-esteem I would approach the next one I saw, say “Hi. Your hot. Let’s be friends.” (in perfect French of course) We would get coffee, fall head over heels in love, and I would retire to a lovely chateau in the French countryside as well as spend my winter’s in his family’s beach house in the South of France because OBVIOUSLY he would be the son of French aristocracy, erudite, eloquent, and wealthy with a love of literature and travel - and Bob Dylan; I’m sure he would also paint and play the guitar, and know how to cook and fix things . . . have I gotten ahead of myself again? Never. (Bahah I can’t take myself seriously.) No, I should answer that question truthfully. Always. ♥
au revoir & cheers,