So about that pilot and the time we spent together in Paris… I told the story to some friends when I eventually got home to New York. And, as is often the case, I was surprised by their reactions.
People, most people, thought it sounded romantic. I actually overheard a friend telling her mother (HER MOTHER!!!) about it on the phone. She said I’d had an affair with a handsome pilot while I was in Paris, and wasn’t it romantic.
I did NOT tell my mother about it. Nor did I ever describe it as romantic.
It was just something I did. An experience.
He was some guy. We were attracted to one another and had great chemistry. But there was zero emotional content. And if I’d stayed longer, we would have gotten bored with each other, sooner or later. Probably sooner.
It was fun. While it lasted. And I got to ride around Paris at warp speed in a Renault and eat in cool/fabulous places that most tourists would never in a million years find.
We had fun. Period.
But there was nothing romantic about it. No passion or real enthusiasm.
Nothing to daydream about.
And I did not miss him, at all, after I left. And I’m 100% certain that he did not miss me. He was probably back, trolling the same left bank cafe for naive American college girls the next night.
Tags: Memories, Paris