A Continental Affair
I was eighteen, and living in Paris for four months. I had no friends, barely any money, and my mastery of the language was nil. One day, an American guy struck up a conversation with me while we were waiting in line to cash traveler’s checks at American Express. He was funny, articulate and 35-ish. So when he invited me to lunch, I readily agreed – what a joy to speak to someone in my native tongue.
Assuming we’d walk to a nearby restaurant, I was momentarily startled when he gestured toward his rented car parked outside the bank. He proposed we drive to his favorite restaurant across town. I got in and we drove.
When we arrived at the restaurant on the outskirts of Paris, he told me to wait while he checked to see if there was a table available. He reappeared moments later, explaining that they were full. But since he had to drive to Brussels later that day for a business meeting the next day, what say I accompany him on the drive? We’d have our lunch somewhere in the countryside along the way, and he’d then simply buy me an airline ticket back to Paris that evening.
I hesitated, but he cajoled, making light of the insignificant airline expense.
Off we drove. Over the course of an enjoyable lunch and accompanying three-hour drive, I learned that he lived in L.A., worked in the record industry, and was married to a former Playboy centerfold model. I don’t remember being particularly disappointed upon hearing he was married. Our casual meeting had evolved into a “date” so quickly that I hadn’t time to form any expectations other than lunch. Besides, we were almost in Brussels, and I’d be flying back to Paris shortly.
In Brussels, he drove us to his hotel, where he’d phone the airport and arrange for my trip back.
Thinking back on it, I have no way of knowing if he actually phoned the airline or was only pantomiming for my benefit. After hanging up the phone, he informed me that the next flight back to Paris was in the morning, I’d have to spend the night.
By then, it began to dawn on me that I’d been hoodwinked. When he insisted we watch a porno on the room’s TV after a room-service dinner, there was not a shred of doubt left.
Did he eventually “get some” of my idiot eighteen-year-old ass that night? Naw. But, I was obliged to refuse him with delicacy and diplomacy as he pawed me throughout night. After all, I had no means of getting back to Paris without the ticket he ultimately bought me the next morning.
