Brendon Green made a true connection on his last night in Paris. Lost in a haze of ‘What If’, he went back.
Listen to the story as it was told at The Watercooler storytelling night or read on.
When I was 25 I moved to Paris, for a girl. A French girl.
That’s far too romantic when I say it like that. When I was 25 I moved to Paris because I wanted a French girl. And I thought they might be there. And they were. But I couldn’t talk to them because I don’t speak French.
The only French I knew before moving to Paris was “j’suis un petite croissant”, or “I am a small croissant”. Not the most romantic conversation starter in the world.
I was there for six months, and I will have you know that I did meet a French girl. For the sake of this story let’s call her Florence, because that’s what her parents did.
Here is the short version of Florence and I: We met on a Wednesday at dinner with mutual friends, we got along really well so we went out on the Friday for a great date, and on Saturday morning I left Paris forever. Because that was my last day there.
My story stems from the exciting and infuriating last part just before you leave. If you have set a date to leave, the time between booking the tickets and actually getting on the train turns into a weird, exciting purgatory.
If life is a series of chapters in a book, for me, the days before leaving are when you turn the page and you can see the new chapter starting over the other side, and there’s only half a page left of writing on this page, and you try to focus on the words and ignore what’s coming, but you can’t. That’s what it’s like for me to leave. Boom, metaphor!
For 5 and ¾ months I was kicking around Paris, not really meeting many new people, filling my chapter by just floating around doing a lot of walking tours and whatnot. I had a small group of friends, all Kiwis and Australians, naturally, who I would sit in cafes and bars with speaking English.
Then on the Wednesday before I left to travel around the rest of Europe, I met Florence at a dinner. There was a group of people, of whom I knew one, and Florence was sitting across from me. She could speak English and wanted to talk to me and it was great and for some reason she liked me. And I knew that she liked me because, and here’s the thing about French girls, they’ll tell you.
Somebody asked her to go outside during dinner and when she stood up to leave she said, “Ok, but when I come back I want to sit next to Brendon because I like him.”
It was like we were back in primary school, coming in from play time. Although, to be honest, she was going outside for a cigarette, so it was like we were at a primary school in Northland.
So she came back in and sat next to me. We carried on talking. I knew that she liked me and that she would say yes if I asked her out at the end of the night. I asked her out at the end of the night and she said “no”. She was busy on the Thursday, so she couldn’t see me. So I said “how about Friday?” and she said “But isn’t that your last night in Paris?” and I said “Yes, but I think you might be worth it.”
She was still beautiful, and she could still speak English, and still wanted to speak it with me. It was wonderful.
And even I’m surprised how good that line was.
So on the Friday night, after having said goodbye to my friends around town, I met Florence at the Paris St Germain Metro Stop (the four other French words I learnt). I came out of the metro stop and she was there, which is another thing I like about French girls: they turn up.
She was still beautiful, and she could still speak English, and still wanted to speak it with me. It was wonderful.
I said to her, “hey, you’re the local here, and it’s my last night in Paris, so can you please take me to the best restaurant you know?” And for my last meal in in Paris, France, the place that invented the world ‘menu’, I was taken to an American diner for burgers.
That was the night I had the single best BBQ bacon double cheeseburger I have ever had in my life. We were on the same spirit wavelength. She got me, and I got a burger. This was already the best date I had ever been on and it was just getting started.
We then left the diner and walked to an incredibly Parisian bar where we proceeded to drink wine and talk about ourselves and each other and life in a way that you can only do if you’re not thinking about it. Knowing the words were coming on the next page meant I wasn’t overthinking these last few lines and the voice in mind that does the bulk of my overthinking was getting caught off guard.
And we drank more wine and we talked and it was great, and I had a joy and a confidence that comes with making a true and pure connection, and also being tipsy. So the voice in my mind, newly confident and warm with wine, said to myself “this is your last night in Paris, you’re not going to see this girl again, let’s pull out all the stops, go big or go home.”
I pulled out my charm gun, and I set it to ‘woo’.
And don’t worry, I did not say that out loud.
What I did say was “Hey Florence, I am loving this evening with you and this bar is amazing. But it’s my last night here and I would like to see the city at night one more time, so would you like to join me for a walk?”
I pulled out my charm gun, and I set it to ‘woo’. And don’t worry, I did not say that out loud.
She said “oui”
And I said “weee!”
And we went out and walked the streets of Paris, at night time, in the light rain, because my life is a movie.
Now I don’t know if you’ve ever been to Paris, or if you know that it exists, but it’s basically the most romantic city ever in the history of ever. And here I was, walking the streets by the river, passing the storied bridges, with a beautiful and charming and fascinating French girl who likes me.
I don’t want to get too poetic, but there were gloriously ornate buildings to our right, glowing golden in the night, and the river Seine to our left, heaving and flowing in time to the beating of the hearts in our chest.
And then my tipsy mind voice kicks in again. “This is great, but it’s not perfect, you should swing for the rafters.” Because I talk to myself exclusively in sports clichés.
So I stopped walking. And Florence stopped walking.
And Florence said “what’s up?”, or, I guess, “le what’s up?”
And if you thought, “Yes, but I think you might be worth it” was good, or “let’s go for a walk in the light rain at night” was impressive, brace yourself.
I said, “Here’s what’s going to happen. You are going to hold my hand and we are going to walk onto this bridge right here. And see that bench in the middle of it? We’re going to sit on that bench and talk for a little while and then I’m going to kiss you.”
And Florence reached out, grabbed my hand, and started walking onto the bridge. And I was so incredibly happy with the world.
In retrospect, I do realise she may have thought she was being kidnapped. Because that did sound a lot like a list of demands. I may as well have added “or else” at the end.
We walked onto the bridge, holding hands. I was happy, she was potentially scared for her life. We get to the bench, we sit down. And we start to talk the pre-kiss talk.
You know the fluff talk that means nothing because you’re both leading up to the kiss. The air is electric and your hands graze each other as you wait for the perfect moment to end the words and kiss. But what would be the line to initiate the first kiss?
If you thought, “Yes, but I think you’re worth it”, “let’s go for a walk in the light rain” and “let’s sit on a bridge and kiss” were good…
I brushed her hair out of her eyes, tucking it behind her ears, and I said these words: “Did you know this is the exact same bridge, and the exact same bench, where they shot the last scene of Sex And The City.” And then I went in for the kiss.
I brushed her hair out of her eyes, tucking it behind her ears, and I said these words: “Did you know this is the exact same bridge, and the exact same bench, where they shot the last scene of Sex And The City.”
You can’t nail them all, you guys. But at least I tried. Three out of four ain’t bad.
And she kissed me back. That’s how much of a connection we had made in this one night. She still kissed me after saying that to her face.
And we carried on the night and in the morning I got my bags and I left Paris, and I left Florence in Paris. And for the rest of my time in Europe I was lost in a haze of ‘What If’.
That’s a wonderful and treacherous place to be, “What If”. I couldn’t concentrate on the moment I was in because my imagination had built an entire alternate future based on one night of fantastic connection. A future where I stayed and I fell in love and my life was fulfilled and happy and I was not a small croissant, I was a large baguette!
If you’re prone to overthinking, those last few days before you leave will get you if you’re not careful. You think you’re safe, you’re not going to start anything new, you take your eyes off the page. But then you meet someone and the What If’s kick in.
The end to this story is that after a month of travelling around Europe, being distracted by the idea of Florence, I did actually head back to Paris to chase my ‘What if’. And I called Florence to ask if she wanted to meet up again. And she said yes, but that I should also know that she had met a guy, a French guy, and they were together now.
So I went out for drinks with Florence. And her new boyfriend. And my What If’s were consumed by reality.
I guess what I’m trying to say is if life is a series of chapters and you’re about to embark on a new one, try to finish cleanly at the bottom of a page. Or, more practically, if you’re prone to romantic What If’s, don’t book your tickets too far in advance because it could break your heart.
This story was originally told at The Watercooler, a monthly storytelling night held at The Basement Theatre. If you have a story to tell email thewatercoolernz@gmail.com or hit them up on Twitter or Facebook.
Illustration: Josh Drummond
This content is brought to you with funding support from New Zealand On Air.