Part of my 18th birthday present my father took me on a tour of London and Paris. We participated in a tour group that seemed to consist mainly of middle aged couples trying to rekindle the fire that was snuffed out years ago (around the time they became comfortable shitting without the door closed). Not the most romantic bunch in the world, but in the City of Love and Lights it does not take much to get a blue balled high school male in the mood (bow chica bow bow!).
Our second day in Paris we made a trip to the Eiffel Tower. After we had made our ascent and descent of the famous piece of architecture, my dad, who like to think of himself as an amateur Ezra Stoller, took leave of my company to take photographs. I was left to wander, taking a few pictures, but mostly people watching (one of my favorite pastimes).
"Excuse me," my guard instantly went up (like the windows when you're about to get stuck at a red light right beside a homeless bum). We had been educated extensively on the ways that Parisian Gypsies attempted to pick pocket you. The most prevalent method was to get your attention (commonly using an "excuse me") and in almost flawless English ask you if you spoke English. The less informed tourist would answer yes and the Gypsy would then begin to ask if you knew directions to somewhere they would show you on a map. All the while your altruistic behavior is being repaid with thievery. Having already been solicited multiple times in the hour we'd been there I was on guard for another bout of unintelligible gibberish (I sounded like a retarded R2-D2) to get them to back off.
But what I saw instead as I turned around was not a gutter rat in hand-me-down hippie clothes (you would think with all their stealing they could afford a douche), but a towering hunk of a man dressed in his pilot's uniform. Tall, dark, and handsome is the perfect cliche. And any man in uniform is guaranteed to get me wet (I know not entirely accurate) This is where the music would swell, our eyes had met. Suddenly all of Paris would be empty and it would be only me and Mr. Pilot.
I have always been cynical of love at first sight. Truly I'm just cynical of love, period. But put me in the most romantic city in the world, under the Eiffel Tower, with a sexy man and these are the things that corny (and horny) romance movies are made of. It would have been a perfect addition to Paris, Je T'Aime. Two Americans from different coasts who find each other in Paris at the Eiffel Tower (ka-ching! And Craig Horner play my costar).
"Do you speak English?"
I was flustered. What did he mean? Did I speak English? Yes, yes I did. Answer, god damnit! "Yeah, yes. Yes, I do."
"I was wondering if you could take my picture?"
"Sure." (that's not the only thing I would do to you)
He handed me his camera and stepped back. "This should be good."
I held up the camera. 1... 2... 3... CLICK!
"Did you get it?"
"Yeah, it's a good one." Like someone with a face like his ever had a bad picture.
He came back over and looked at it. "Thanks, I'm Daniel." (Daniel, I just want to motorboat your pecs)
"Leo." We shook hands. His hands were big (you know what they say about big hands) and his grip was firm.
We chatted for a little bit about where we were from. He was from Chicago, on a layover in Paris (this script practically writes itself). We were working the conversation closer to a possible one night rendezvous, when my dad came up behind him. Of all the timing in all the world, his is the worst (or from a parental perspective, the best). Completely clueless he had interrupted a beautiful moment between me and the man I should have married he introduced himself and effectively drove him off within 30 seconds (CUT! Let's try this again. Everything was perfect except when you came up and killed the moment).
We made our au revoirs and I missed out on the perfect movie love scene in Paris, France. How many chances like that come around in a lifetime? (don't answer that)
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