Die Letzte Nacht in Munchen...
One evening very recently, I was in the midst of a simple home repair (the slatted blind cord-lift mechanism had rusted to pieces, out on the lanai) when I found myself unable to proceed further without a certain specific screw. And no, I am not referring to a sudden urge to send Captain Winkie out on a nocturnal scouting expedition to dazzle any fecund female within squid-poking range into a physical dalliance of the coital persuasion, but a Phillips head slotted screw of a certain diameter that was all that kept me from fixing the blasted blind’s winder mechanism.
These moments have occured with surprising frequency over the course of my life, I have found, the incidence of which being perhaps most attributable to a vestigial fragment of ADD (attention deficit disorder) left over from keiki days (childhood). Whatever the cause, to my mind there’re fewer annoyances as great as having to suddenly interrupt whatever you are doing to scuttle down to the local hardware store for some small widget or thingumbob that, although small, poses an insurmountable technological obstacle to successful completion of the latest project. Fortunately, such moments don’t often occur while romancing Betty Jo Bioloski (or Audrey Weenfinkle, or Lelani Kulomea, or Maile Cuernevaca, or…well, you get the tidal drift), save during an all-out emergency in which the hale’s usually ample stock of KY Jelly and condoms has run out; typically the catalyst is far less beautiful and seductive, but none the less vital (like an unplugged carburetor, an unoccluded septic tank outflow, or a calm lower GI system) to pleasurable living in our modern times.
And so, screwdriver in one hand and draw-cord in the other, I was faced with the perplexing need to take a quick trip into the ville to find the right bit of helically machined metal with which to complete the job. Fortunately, it was still early and although the sun was just about to plunge into the glittering waters of the Kalohi Channel’s blue-green expanses, it was yet light enough to enjoy a leisurely putt down to what passes for a hardware store in K’kai. Hey, it’s Hawaii, local stay-go ‘slo-mo’ rules apply, always.
At any rate, as I pulled into the parking area, out of the corner of my eye I became vaguely aware of a small, ‘local’ bookstore that I have somehow never managed to enter for a look-about. Since my lanai’s blind would wait patiently enough for my return, and this being Molokai where absolutely NOTHING is ever that urgent, on a sudden whim I decided to deviate off course and go take a look at this little hole-in-the-wall bookstore I had so often seen and ignored, but never actually visited.
Predictably, a rather loud cowbell jangled my nerves as I pushed the door open, since cowbells seem to be almost as common a fixture on small bookshop doors as they are in the home-team bleachers at U of H’s football games. Probably a lot more common, in fact, than they are in actual use among herds of bovine-hoofed steaks-to-be on the streets of Pamplona in July. This particular one would likely have wakened whole platoons of exhausted cattle herders, let alone the drowsy proprietor of a small Hawaiian book shop; but as the last jangle died out, I calmed my nerves, refocused my attention on the shop and walked in.
The first thing that caught my eye was not books, but a rather lovely, dark-haired wahine who looked about 35-40, in extremely good shape, and who was wearing a flower behind her right ear! Not the usual, haggard Hawaiian volcanic mountain wearing slippahs and a mu’umu’u out on an evening visit to the Friendly Market (a long-time local grocery store), but a trim, fit and lissome wahine wearing shorts and a snug-fitting sports-bra that seemed hard-pressed to contain her bountiful blessings. Her long, dark, straight hair suggested a healthy increment of Japanese or Chinese ancestry (more likely the former, since there are far fewer Chinese in the islands, and most of them are on Oahu) mixed into the typically diverse cultural admixture one finds in the islands. Most importantly, she was alone and not conspicuously being herded about by some monstrously large local bruddah looking for ‘beef’. And, she was looking at books (both of these dynamics being beyond ordinary value in my world, of course). Hot damn. A beautiful young and ‘available’ (as in ‘flower behind right ear’) woman in a bookstore, poking about the dusty shelves. It just doesn’t get much better than that in my world (unless you run into dakine on some isolated Molokai beach, surfboard in hand, and unattended by local ‘koa’).
Since I am a hopeless bookaholic who becomes irreversibly mesmerised anywhere near the vicinity of old books, every time I walk into a book store I instantly find myself a bit shaky and disoriented. A mood somewhat approximating the sort of irresistible fascination of the sort I would imagine Dante Alighieri might feel upon entering hell (crossing over from its ‘First Circle’ of indifference to the heated lustfulness of its ‘Second Circle’) seizes me. It’s not all that dissimilar from the thrill of awe I would imagine a tourist might experience walking into the massive Gothic cathedral that dominates the Zentralplatz in Austria’s Wien and gazing up into the black depths of the ethereally gloomy magnificence that lies within its massive doors. Yeah, pathetic I know, but books just do that to me. It’s hard to explain exactly why books affect me like that, other than to say that to me they are priceless icons of the hard-gained knowledge of centuries of human development and an important artifactual veneer of civilization that helps (barely) mask our baser primitive nature.
So, two primal and fatally alluring concurrent dynamics were at work here: 1) books, since they represent ultimate knowledge and the treasures of enlightenment; and 2) sensual, female beauty, since women are the ascendant nurturing catalyst that permits all human life to perpetuate itself. Wowie-zowie. We talkin’ archetypal…no, primal…forces here, brah.
So there I am, taking in the measure of these two primal elements of meaningful life in that little store, my missing screw (no pun intended, but perhaps there IS a certain aptness to the allusion, after all…) completely forgotten in the surging maelstrom of feelings evoked by my contemplation of these personal catalysts. Finally (and most reluctantly) managing to tear my eyes away from the perky abundance of that gor’jus wahine’s ample rack, segued into place by her tight sports-bra, I began to wander the small and confined aisles, pausing here and there in front of each topical section to graze. Predictably, I didn’t make progress of more than a few feet before I found a book (or two or three) that less than a few minutes ago I couldn’t have imagined being unable to live without.
Shortly, after some 20 minutes of bemused wandering, laden with my discoveries, I hauled my booty (ah! Another play on words?) over to the counter. The rich diversity of my selections would be immediately apparent if you happened to see some of the titles I had selected, but by some bizarre twist, right there on the top of my stack lay a book titled ‘An Illustrated History of Torture and Execution Throughout the Ages’. The previously referenced and well-oogled wahine was standing at the counter in front of me as I walked up, and she turned reflexively towards me as I came to a halt behind her. Suddenly, the beautiful, warm and relaxed smile on her lovely face instantly froze. It was if her entire face had been dipped in pure liquid Nitrogen (at about -196 degrees C.), so obvious was the change in attitude now engraved on her alarmed features. For my part, I was momentarily flummoxed by this startling transformation…until, that is, I saw her again dart another quick glance at that book on torture and execution that was sitting so prominently on the top of my stack. Gaak!
All the Irish charm in the world would have been of no avail to me in that instant, as I am convinced she was by then experiencing rapid-rewind serial flashes of memory about all the news articles she had ever read about psychotic killers, seriously deranged father-rapers, imbalanced mother-stabbers (Arlo Guthrie’s terms), and perhaps even substance-addicted, sociopathic pederasts bent on homocide in that single instant of horrifically miss-communicated, non-verbal language.
Arrrgh! No one else in the world could possibly have had the sort of incredible bad luck I had just had in creating this irreversibly profound negative impression without even saying a single word! So much for that priceless (and increasingly rare) opportunity to meet an intelligent, lovely, and friendly woman, now shot down the tubes of some existential black hole of cosmic chance! Whereas some of us mortals seem to have a unique talent of putting foot in mouth to effect such a denouement, I appear blessed with the ability of achieving the same disastrous result without even opening my mouth! Lucky me!
Her subsequent departure from that small shop was so rapid and so complete that the shop’s owner and I found ourselves gasping like fish out of water in the vacuum of her removal. He had barely managed to ring up the first of my books as the sweet fragrance left in her convective slipstream wafted past both of us, the cowbell marking the moment with its cacophonous din like the church bells tolling for thee in Hemingway’s Spain. “Fortes Fortuna adiuvat”, perhaps, but as we all know, “Fortuna caeca est!” (‘Fortune favors the brave’…but ‘fortune is blind’). And that begs a further question: “Volo, non valeo” (‘I am willing, but unable!’ which could be allegorically paraphrased as a figurative 'Viagra moment’). And so go the fortunes of men.
OK, so my rather too broad range of interests and proclivities had apparently chased this wahine off, however unjustly. Shouldering my load of bargain books with a mental shrug, I returned to the old VW air sucker I tool around in and headed it back up the King Kam V Highway to the hale. Imagine my surprise when driving over the home berm to find that not only had I lost this unique opportunity to connect with a lani wahine (pretty woman), I had ALSO totally forgotten to pick up the screw that had launched the whole adventure in the first place. As I entered the hale, the broken blind on the lanai stared balefully back at me with its inanimate air of reproachful disapprobation. Even the dogs looked at me with disapproval, so it seemed.
Making a mental note to return to town tomorrow and dropping the pile of books onto a table on the lanai, I spent a few moments staring out across the channel to Lanai (the island), reflecting on the fact that the missed connection rather more perfectly typifies my life than not (with a few notable exceptions, more about which I shall shortly tell you). By this time the sun had completely disappeared into whatever deep hole in the reef setting suns on Molokai normally vanish into, but there was just the gentlest of soft evening trades playing amongst the coco palm fronds and despite the lost potential for company, it promised to be another beautiful night on the island.
Now, by my table on the lanai (the open porch, not the island) is a small stack of other books all in the process of being read, since I am a bibliographic omnivore who reads many books at the same time. More latent keiki ADD (Attention Deficit Disorder) fall-out, I’m sure, but whatever the dynamic at work here, I cannot typically pursue more than a few chapters of any particular book before two things happen: 1) my sense of imagination starts becoming inflamed, leading me off into the deepest recesses of ruminative contemplation; and 2) I become restless. This never-failing process is usually what catalyses yet another tappety-tappety-tap session on the laptop, ending up as a blog entry, since I become so over-stimulated thinking about what I’ve just read that I am no longer capable of further reading.
On this particular eve, still reflecting sadly on how nice it would have been to have invited that wahine over for some cheap mainland wine (cheap but expensive wine, that is), I absently picked up a dog-eared copy of one of UK writer Stephen Clarke’s delightfully droll accounts of his adventures as a British expatriate in France (this one was titled ‘A Year in the Merde’). Indirectly paralleling writer Peter Mayle’s somewhat subtler and more genteel ‘A Year in Provence’, Clarke seems to have hit on a formular approach to both entertaining us Anglophiles and taking the French to task for their being…well, just for being so ‘French’. The subject of the French and their culture holds perpetual interest for me, as an Anglo-American of Irish and French extraction who (strangely) has always felt much more at home in German-speaking Europe than in those nations colonialised by la belle Francaise.
Clarke’s accounts of encounters with the natives of Gall in his series of ‘Merde’ books (there are now about 6 of them, I think) are both enormously entertaining and vastly insightful, since unlike Mayle’s more circumspect tale of an upper-middle class English couple’s experiences with the exasperating habits and traits of the rural French (as relocated British cottage buyers in Provence), Clarke’s accounts are an equal mix of English-French business interactions and his personal campaign to shag every French woman who returns his randy gaze for more than a split second.
The French, who have so often been accused of exercising their legendary Gallic contrarinesss in everything they undertake, are truly deserving of every one of Clarke’s journalistic barbs and much more (in my opinion), based upon my own (admittedly limited) experience with the Frankish tribes of Greater Normandy. Having said that, I will admit from the git-go to a somewhat covert bias against the French, despite the fact that another part of me secretly envies their guiltless resolution to reinterpret every possible nuance of reality to suit their nationalistic expectations.
I suppose part of this personal Francophobia results from my studies in international history, in which there is seemingly always a hidden Frenchie in everyone’s woodpile and a frustratingly devilish Francophone undercurrent running contrary to everything that Anglo-America has traditionally stood for in the past several hundred years of English-French relations. How ironic, then, to find myself admitting that I am part French Huguenot in my own ancestral make-up. Merde!
Be all that as it may, Stephen Clarke’s accounts of interacting with the French, on both a professional and personal level (in the latter case, almost always horizontal), is a worthy and considerably entertaining read to undertake. Aside from describing the sort of ineffable hypocrisy French men manifest in a delightfully unsubtle manner, Clarke’s unending efforts to penetrate the deepest figurative recesses of French womanhood are particularly illuminating in contrasting the corresponding English and French coital preferences and practices (Liberte! Fraternity! Conjugality?...perhaps Marianne, that voluptuously endowed iconic symbol of French nationhood, would demur on that last set of points, but I wouldn’t want to bet on it).
One relationship in particular that Clarke (aged 35) describes involves a young woman in her mid 20s whom he literally moves in on, and in with. After their relationship has been active for 6 months, he abruptly learns from her that she has a boyfriend who is about to return from the Middle East (where he was a physician working for ‘Medicine Without Borders’); therefore would Clarke please remove his things from her flat at his earliest convenience? Clarke, as the product of a decidedly English traditional Protestant moral ethic regulating coital relations, emotional fidelity, and the implied status of permanence in relationships, is thus aghast to learn first-hand of that uniquely French tendency to regard sex as a mere physical appetite that requires cyclical acknowledgment, much as one’s stomach is used to being filled at regular intervals or cows are accustomed to being milked on schedule. Hunger may be assuaged by any of a wide range of foods, of course, but emotional ‘exclusivity’ as a conguent condiment of sex?...mai non! To the French, Clarke learns, sex is merely a pleasurable itch that needs to be regularly scratched, a hunger that requires oral satiation, and a pleasurable habit that implies no more concurrent empathetic exclusivity than the random rutting of dogs in the street.
The example in reference above is supported by several others Clarke details quite amusingly, including a regular shagging of his French boss’ young daughter (he actually lives with her for a while, despite the fact that she frequently has other boyfriends over for the night) and an extended ménage au deux with an exotic half Indian woman he meets in a gay bar. Oh yes and there’s also the evening he spends dancing drunkenly with a ravishingly beautiful transsexual whose ‘package’ has not yet been surgically removed (unbeknownst to him, of course). There’s much more, but I’ll let you read the books yourself.
Reflecting on all of this, it isn’t hard to see parallels extant in the United States, my own Anglo-influenced nation that derived most of its original morals and ethics from Mother England. American men of my generation, the product of a traditionally repressed Anglo-Saxon Puritan standard of morally appropriate inter-gender conduct, have formerly spent decades fooling each other with the pretension that casual sex is the preferred norm, all the while fighting an uphill battle to have that casual sex with good little girls from upwardly aspiring, religiously conscionable Christian families who had been taught from the onset of puberty to ‘save themselves’ for marriage. More recently, both young men and young women in our increasingly less Anglo-Saxon influenced (read: more ethnically diverse) society have adopted far more casual attitudes about sex. This is likely consequent at least in part to the lessened hold conservative religion has previously had on them (in marked contrast to attitudes extant as few as several decades prior to the present), but there is still a strong element of Hugh Hefner's ‘Playboy Era’ sexuality to be found among America’s male population (read: highly fomularised conventional sex, characterised by rigidly defined and regulated ‘tits and ass’ norms of behavior, and garnished by a wildly undiminished paranoia over the perceived threat that homosexuality poses to ‘straight’ macho men).
In France (and much of Europe) casual sex of every type and description has been regarded for centuries with about as much seriously somber insightfulness as sharing a baguette and a bottle of local varietal with others on a bicycle ride through the countryside. Contraceptives are consumed by the French like vitamins are in America, condoms are part of every individuals basic gear, and there is none of the near-hysterical moral hand-wringing and consciousness searching associated with the occasional elective abortion.
OK, all the above information necessarily prefaces one particular experience of my own of the French kind that occurred in mid-1985. I was working in the Middle East then and had taken a couple of weeks of holiday to leisurely tour through the German-speaking countries, since my German, while not perfect, is still adequate enough to not send the local populations of Germanic peoples screaming to the hills with perplexed annoyance when I attempt to communicate with them in their own language.
I had rented a bright red Porsche 911 on arrival at Geneve (Genf, in Deutschsprache) and had just wrapped up a wonderfully languid two week vagabonding of Austria and Switzerland, ending up in Munchen, where my flight out and back to Saudi Arabia was to depart the next day. Checking in at the Kempinski luxury hotel Vier Jahrzeiten on the swanky Maximilianstrasse, I unpacked for a last night on the town before leaving the following morning. Then, donning my favorite old olive colored ‘lucky’ flight jacket (a Navy G-8 WEP), I began a stroll through picturesque, ancient Munchen, a city whose architectural and cultural history has always been delightful to me.
As I wandered about, I’m sure a number of the younger local people regarded me with a certain suspicion, thinking that the flight jacket marked me as an active duty US military person. At that time in Europe there was a broadly popular student movement by Euro socialist activists to force the US to remove its short-range Pershing tactical nuclear missiles from European soil, so perhaps wearing the jacket hadn’t been a great idea, viewed in retrospect. However, there were no direct confrontations as the evening unfolded and I greatly enjoyed wandering from district to district and from historic site to storied edifice, so the evening flowed as bucolically as the River Isar itself.
I had just passed by the great gray Feldherrnhalle (‘Field Marshals’ Hall’), a monument built in the early 1840s by King Ludwig I, the Bavarian king and Mad King Ludwig II’s father, and was turning the corner after admiring the brooding old columns of the structure for a protracted moment or two. As I rounded the blind corner’s pedestrian sidewalk, I literally ran straight into a rather beautiful young woman. With long dark brown hair, a slender but perfectly proportioned figure and dark brown eyes, she would have easily mesmerized any man who gazed upon her; but I, instead, had just about knocked her on her lovely little tight end, so I helped her up and apologized profusely for my clumsiness in not seeing her approach. With perfect, purring gracefulness, she accepted my murmurs of apology and seemed to smile about something I had said (I think). [My imperfect German? Instead of apologizing, had I somehow described myself (auf Deutsch) as a prematurely matured cabbage made from tear-stained burlap? I hope not!}
At any rate, after observing the obligatory formal niceties of such awkward encounters, we parted, each of us going in the opposite direction. For my part, I was headed to the Schwabing student district, originally known as the artistic quarter of the city, located in the north part of Munchen (and Adolf Hitler’s favorite part of the city, in his starving artist days), but I couldn’t help reflecting on what a yummy woman I had had the sheer bad luck to nearly knock on her pretty derriere. She was definitely still there inside my ruminations, a tantalizing scent from her yet lingering in my mind mixed with reflections on all that beautiful soft roundness she had up above, when I rounded another corner near the Leopoldstrasse and B*A*N*G, I ran into her again! The same lovely dark brunette who had survived my first accidental onslaught! This time instead of nearly bowling each other over, we found ourselves catching each other in a close (if totally unplanned) embrace.
This was too much of a coincidence, I thought, but being the somewhat formal and properly brought up lad that I was, I simply chalked the latest body-check with this creature up as sheer random luck. What were the odds that this sort of encounter should happen? Twice? However, leaving that thought unanswered, I once again excused my clumsiness and made my apologies, although not before exchanging a decidedly bemused look with her as we both thought about the chances of two such collisions occurring on the same evening! Reluctantly, I again took my leave and headed back to the domes of the Frauenkirche for a look at the delightful Glockenspiele that displays a musical rendition of the time, each hour.
This time, I found myself definitely preoccupied by what had just happened, as there was no question in my mind she was an absolute stunner. Practicing a mental shrug, I was very near the Frauenkirche, bemusedly watching the clock there with the rest of the crowd of tourists, when I turned to my right briefly and once again just about ran head-on into this same women! Unbelievable! I told myself, but this time, as the hour rang out and the Glockenspiele’s array of animated figures paraded by on their mechanical track, I made an attempt to engage her in some conversation, since I was now certain that some cosmic deity or another was trying to get something through to me, total studly dunderhead that I am.
It didn’t take long, nor did it completely exhaust my poor German, to learn that she was not a German citizen at all, but a French woman, a student at some ecole or another in southern France where she was studying ‘le danse’. Her name, she told me, was Danielle, and she lived on a boat off the Cote De’Azure with a boyfriend. She had apparently decided to use a term break at the university to hitch-hike up into Bavaria for a short holiday, for much the same reason that as I had decided to take a two week tour through Austria and Switzerland.
Well! This was quite interesting, to say the least, and as it turned out, neither of us spoke the other’s native language. She spoke no English and I spoke no French, although we both spoke enough rudimentary German to get by. Thus, the evening began in a sort of slightly puzzling but acceptable linguistic limbo. I told her I was an American, taking a break from the Middle East. To keep things simple, when she asked about the flight jacket, I told her I was an instructor pilot (‘Lehrer Pilote’), working with the Royal Saudi Air Force, which was naturally enough a complete fabrication. However much an out-and-out lie that was, I certainly looked the part with my flight jacket and Ray-Bans, so the beautiful French dance student named Danielle accepted the handsome American pilot’s invitation for some drinks and we left the Frauenkirche together, both clearly bemused by the unexpected turn of events.
Since I’ve never been very brave around women, I’m afraid that I had to imbibe more than a bit of whatever we were drinking before I inquired as to where she was staying, being on holiday and all. She mentioned that she had been staying at youth hostels and Nautrefreunde houses, so adequately lubricated with a quantity of good German-brewed ‘Irish’ courage, I proposed that she come and stay with me that night at the Four Seasons. It was a rather swanky place, of course, and there were two king sized beds in my suite (I traveled first class, always) as a pretext for being so bold and before long we found our way back to the hotel. Being a lifelong gentleman, I never say ‘Nice ass…wanna f***?’, which is the suggested contemporary greeting referenced for use with French women by author Stephen Clarke, but I must have certainly been hoping for something like that!
Long story short, the monumental sensuality of that night remains in my mind to this day with crystal clarity (despite all the German beer and wine I had consumed, earlier in the evening). As I had guessed she would, when it was time to turn in, lovely, gazelle-like Danielle slipped away briefly into le bain and emerged a short time later in all her natural, sun-tanned splendor. Her body, clearly a well-honed instrument toned by several years of serious dance study, was just mind-boggling in its agility. As a result, viewed in retrospect, beautiful, brunette, German speaking Danielle remains as perhaps one of the most exotically ravishing encounters I have ever had with a woman…bar none.
In the course of the next hour or two, Danielle taught me things about ‘love’ I hadn’t even known existed. Her incredibly limber and perfectly toned body assumed positions I am certain even the Kama Sutra had never dared to fully describe, as we lost each other in a tsunami of pent-up, raw sexual energy. Or at least I got lost in hers…probably about the time she first wrapped those incredibly long legs around my neck and squeezed those perfectly toned pelvic muscles in a way only a dancer can. For her part she most likely regarded me as strictly an amateur by her advanced standards, but at least I was one who was an eager (if slightly drunk) and willing student of her favored exotic coital instructions. Wow. That’s really the only word that describes that night, as puerile as that ejeculation is. Her natural scent—a perfect complement to her exceptional physical beauty—seemed exquisite to me, and I probably could have slept the entire next day (not just due to all the wine and beer consumed, either) like a babe in her arms, had there not been a timetable to keep and Arabs to tend to.
However, it was my last evening in Munchen and so at dawn I was up, reluctant to be leaving Danielle behind (or leave Danielle’s behind, take your pick...), but bound to return to Saudi on time or lose my all-important entry visa (they’re very strict about visas). Danielle, for her part, packed up her things (having already proven that she had her own personal Visa 'Entry requirements') and I then drove her down to the Munchen bahnhof, where she said would catch a train home to southern France and her Cotes de’Azure boyfriend.
It had all been so perfect, so very perfect. But then I managed to screw things up terribly at the last possible moment. As Danielle retrieved her things from the trunk, prior to catching her train, in a moment of what now seems to me to have been perfect madness, I reflexively pulled my wallet out and naively pressed a hundred Mark note into her hand, saying that it was for her trip. Yes. I actually did that!
Dropping her backpack, my lovely Danielle swiftly stepped back and slapped me silly with her strong right hand, as a look of sheer disbelief (followed instantly by a look of absolute disgust) spread quickly over her lovely face. Her opinion of all Americans must have, at that second, plummeted to the very bottom of the Paris sewer system, given this insulting display of ignorant behavior on my part. I, of course, being but a naïve American, had merely been giving her a small token present, since I was making bazillions over in Saudi. Never for the slightest second did it dawn on me that I had just insultingly insinuated that Danielle was no better than a common prostitute for having slept with me the previous night. A French man would NEVER have made that simple faux pas, alors et mon Dieu!
By the time I got some sensation of feeling back in my bright red cheek (and a bit of understanding of the serious gaffe I had just made), lovely, gazelle-like Danielle the dance student was gone, disappeared into the cavernous bowels of the Munchen Bahnhof and forever vanished from my life (except for these wistful memories of her intimacies that I carry with me to this day)!
And that’s just one example from my own catalogue of experiences with the French, but there’s not enough time to spin any further stories at the moment about: ‘Obscene Francine’ (for example), the gorgeous blonde French-Canadian woman who wound up my clock in the King’s gym in Riyadh…or Sooks, an equally stunning Korean-Canadian woman whom I have actually written about elsewhere at AD…or a dark haired Normandienne named Celine, a French helicopter mechanic working for Aerospatiale at King Fahad Air base, who although typically covered with grease and hydraulic fluid during the day, came exquisitely attired in little black dress, perfume, and real diamonds to the embassy in the evening, such that every male head there could simply stare at her richly endowed form with awed stupefaction! Perhaps some other time. This is, after all, only a blog entry…not a novel. (Well, possibly a blog with novel pretensions, eh?).
It is my hope that the foregoing will help make clear at least partly why the French remain largely a little known enigma to me to this very day, despite my Froggy ancestry. Oh yes, if you get a chance to read any of Stephen Clarke’s amusing books about his own experiences with the French, by all means do so. They’re available at Amazon and just about everywhere!
Bon soiree, mes amis! Churchez la femme!