Speed Date With a Frenchman

He claimed that French people express their affection by fighting with one another. The concept was counterintuitive to me.

We met at a speed dating event. Professionals in the City was the organizer. I tried online dating, but had no luck. Some of the guys used pictures on their profiles that were at least a decade old, which felt duplicitous. After one failed marriage, honesty was paramount to me.

With speed-dating, the participants have five minutes to capture the interest of the person with whom they conversed. After five minutes, a bell is rung and the men move on to the next table in the circle. It is amazing what some men choose as their opening lines and what they believe might be impressive to a woman. A couple of the men I met were young enough to be my sons. One such young man told me he was a patent lawyer. Boring. I told him there was no chance I would date him because he was as young as my children. He did not believe me until I whipped out my license. But since he complimented me by believing I was much younger than I am, I decided to help him out.

“Do you supervise other attorneys?” I asked.

“Yes, many,” he replied.

“Then maybe you should lead with something like: ‘I supervise a large team of lawyers who help brilliant engineers advance technological discoveries,’” I suggested. He beamed as he moved on to the next table.

Next up was a Frenchman. The Frenchman was charming and well-traveled. His French accent was alluring. He regaled me with stories of his life as a scuba dive instructor. And he was the only one who was able to captivate me during the allotted interval.

After the event, all of us were invited to mingle. The Frenchman approached me and asked if I would like to talk further. He offered to buy me a glass of Merlot. I told him I did not drink. He said he did not drink American wine.

"I'm sure they have some French wine here," I said.

"I don't drink French wine except in France," he replied.

"Why?" I wondered.

"It gets ruined in transport," he reasoned.

Hmm. This raised a yellow flag in my mind. I let it drop. As a recovering alcoholic, it was easier for me if he didn't drink wine in front of me. I love wine, especially a good Merlot. I was romanticizing a good glass of wine when he broke my reverie with a drawn out explanation of his doctoral dissertation.

The Frenchman was an intellectual, with strong points of view. His dissertation involved people with dual nationalities. His father was an American, but his mother was French and he grew up in Paris. I was fascinated, since my mother is from a different country.

His belief in the superiority of all things French quickly emerged in our conversation. His entreaties for my opinion verged on goading. Yet I came to understand that the ability to win an argument was a prized attribute in France. I gamely engaged in debate. I am an attorney, after all. Countering his points after he countered mine became exhausting. I am a lover, not a fighter. And when I fight in litigation, I mostly do it on paper.

He was an excellent kisser. He cupped my face in his hands as if I was absolutely precious to him. He gently drew me closer to him and took his time. He looked deeply in my eyes and whispered something that sounded even more romantic in French. I was entranced.

Ultimately, his attitude of French superiority that tinged every conversation between us was the undoing of our short relationship. “That was the most arrogant man I have ever met,” said my daughter, after we broke up. But that first date transported me to the City of Love, albeit avec débat sur le côté.