the weather in paris, part four

Part 4

While I often go through a day thinking that I can do anything, I have grown to know my limitations. I know I cannot slam dunk a basketball (not that I want to). I know that I cannot hit sing a high B above middle C. I know that I cannot dance well enough to raise money for a cup of coffee, much less to make a living off of. And, I know that I cannot tan. I should have learned the first time tried at the age of 13 when I covered myself with baby oil to layout with my sister. The following week when I looked like a walking Washington State Apple, I should have learned my lesson. But, when I want something badly, it takes me repeated failures before I understand that it may not happen. And, even 20 years after my first failed attempt and the many that followed, I still want to be a person that can tan and refuse to accept my pale complexion will do anything else than burn, peel and freckle.

With my hands on the waistband of my swimsuit, I contemplated the possible outcomes. I could encounter life unencumbered for the very first time. I could feel the breeze. I could feel the freedom. I could experience the beauty of nature as I lay there in my own natural state. I could take it off and frolick nude in the sun for the first time.

Then, I remember while I was sunbathing with an Italian did not mean I *was* an Italian. Recalling that my Swedish and Irish heritage was still fully intact and that all of this "freedom" I would enjoy would eventually lead me to a red hot prison, burning like the fires of hell and tighter than my skin, I decided to keep the swimsuit on.

Although I was sure the free-thinking Frenchman with me would also disregard his swimsuit like a used tissue, he didn't. Whether he was trying to be polite and relate to the conservative American or whether he also did not want to toast his personal Eiffel Tower, he stayed clothed.

I think we read some, I think we talked for a while, I think we listened to music on our headphones. I don't remember much of the day at the beach anymore except a few moments. Lying on cots next to each other, Nicholo would occasionally reach over and stroke my back. Unprovoked and without words, he would just put his hand on my back and leave it there for a while. Time would pass, and I would open my eyes and see that he was laying beside me, just looking at me. He'd make a quirky face to forgo any language barrier, and we would share a smile. Time would pass and he would reach over and gently touch my face, letting his presence and affection be known. That is what I remember of our day at the beach. It was all so perfect still that those touches were the only things that proved to me that this was really happening.

By the end of the day, I was covering myself with a towel. I literally laid under th towel as if it was a blanket. Even though every 30 minutes, I reapplied sunscreen, I was certain I had developed immunity to it and that my cancer-hungry skin was soaking up the Grecian sun like a sponge. Italians can spend 8 hours nude on the beach and just turn a more beautiful shade of tan, but I knew Swedes like me can't take the risk. Thankfully, whether the foreigners I was with were either done or merely taking pity on the white American, we left Super Paradise Beach and headed back to the hotel to clean up and then go do dinner.

After a short time, Nicholo and Jojo appeared at my door, ready to go to a wonderful steak place they knew. Again, my American Eagle zip up sweatshirt/jacket and Gap thermal paled in comparison to the fashions being sported by the Frenchman and Italian. Nicholo wore a beautiful white fitted jacket, opened in the chest just enough to show off his beautiful diamond cross necklace and short (very short) drawstring hounds-tooth shorts.

Jojo took more of a pirate approach. His white linen shirt was pared with black horse-riding pants and knee-high, black laced, white boots. Not feeling the outfit was quite complete, he topped it with a white bandana decorated with black skull-n-crossbones. I guess for an island once attacked by pirates, it was an appropriate ensemble.

As we entered the winding streets, heading to our restaurant, people stared at him and whispered about him as he passed. But Jojo didn't notice. Or if he did, he didn't care. Jojo didn't give a fuck what people thought of him. And, I admired the hell out of him for that. I own hats and glasses that I never wear because I'm afraid what people will say. I should take a page out of the book of Jojo and not care. Why waste my time being concerned about what a person I do not know thinks?
We arrived at the restaurant and as with most places there, sat outside on their patio. Jojo took the lead and ordered a very nice bottle of wine and excellent steaks. Halfway through the course of the dinner, somehow, the mood and the main language changed. I'm not sure what provoked it or what was said, but all I knew was Jojo and Nicholo were having a heated discussion in French. There was some argument going on, but I have no idea what started it or what it involved.

Occasionally, Nicholo would apologize for being rude and speaking only in French. And, while never explaining what the argument entailed, he would merely mention that he was not being smart, he was a foolish dreamer, and Jojo was correct. Days later, I would think about that and try to make sense of it. While originally I did not think the French fight was about me, I wondered later if it was. If it did not involve me, why not just argue in English? Since it was in their language, I wondered if they were trying to keep me clueless… Was it about me after all?

Today, although I do not remember the words they used and still know no French, I like to imagine it was… I like to pretend that Nicholo was trying to think of a way to get me to Paris, to continue these special moments we found, and Jojo, the wise Italian, was explaining all the reasons it would never work. If that was the case, I have to agree that Jojo was right, but I just like to believe that I was not the only one projecting happy endings to this story… that I was not the only one routing for it all.
The bill arrived, and Jojo paid it. Still in a foul mood due to the French debate, he excused himself, and Nicholo and I were on our own again. We wondered the streets together and returned to the bars where we had been the night before. We ran into our German friends again, and we also bumped into a young American we met at the beach who was doing the whole "backpacking across Europe" thing—totally cliché, but still a completely enviable cliché. After conversations with them, we stopped off at the dance club that was having a Greek version of a drag show. While we waited for the show to begin, the owner of the club came over to talk with us… and by "us," I mean he came over to talk with Nicholo.

After introductions were made, he looked at me in my sweatshirt and he looked at Nicholo in his fitted white jacket and asked me in a snotty way, "You are dressed like this," he said to me with a crinkled nose, "and you are dressed so beautifully" he said to Nicholo admiringly. "Are you two together? Are you boyfriends?" he asked in disbelief.

Without a pause, without a moment of hesitation, Nicholo responded, "Yes, we are. He is my two-day boyfriend."

I smiled as the bar owner shrugged and walked away. Nicholo put his head on my shoulder (even though he was clearly taller than me). I put my hand in his hair and kissed him on the forehead.

"Merci," I said.

"We are," he affirmed. "You are my two day boyfriend."

Knowing there was no point in staying out late, and having been worn out by the sun at the beach, we headed back to the hotel… where nothing happened. We went to bed and slept. I guess in terms of a two day relationship, you have to reach the later, no sex stages of a relationship quickly, so the second night is equivalent to eighth year or so. So, like an old married couple, we just went to bed and feel asleep holding each other. Before the moment we nodded off, he looked me in the eyes, and in the thickest French accent possible, he softly said, "I love spending time with my two-day boyfriend."

We were tired, we were boring and it was completely uneventful… and entirely wonderful at the same time.

We woke up the next morning with the sun rising and my checkout looming. The complimentary breakfast was available, and Nicholo invited me to join him for it, but I didn't. My things were scattered around the room, and I needed time to collect my belongings (as well as my thoughts) before my ferry to Athens departed.

We stood there, facing each other. He, dressed in his clothes from our evening out the night before, me in shorts and a t-shirt I found on the floor. It was a moment I wasn't prepared for. Being on vacation, I was not thinking much beyond the next minute, so when the time came to say goodbye, I had nothing prepared. No final remarks, no plan. That is why a moment of awkward silence—the first one for us even with our moderate language barrier – weighed heavily.
We hugged, for a moment. Long enough to make it substantial, but brief enough to keep it from being melodramatic. We kissed, sweetly, slowly and softly. With foreheads together, he whispered, "I will miss my two day boyfriend." I replied, "And I will miss mine."

No numbers were exchanged. No email addresses were traded. No talk or empty promises of keeping in touch were offered. We loved the time, we adored the encounter, but without discussing it, we knew it was our moment… our beautiful moment in the woods.

And, he left. Out the door. Off to breakfast. Off to the world.

My travels continued. I was off to Athens. And, since, I have taken other trips and had other adventures. But, every day, inevitably, I think of Nicholo. An intriguing, French, beautiful man who was interested in me. Me. Just me.

Yes, the "relationship" had a shelf life of two days—shorter than a gallon of milk. Yes, he was not pledging forever. He only had to be "faithful" for 48 hours… Others would make nothing of it—just calling it an extended hook up.

And while I find myself a little more pessimistic every day (something I swore I would never be), I find this different. For whatever reason, I refuse to discard this as just a meaningless encounter. To me, it was more. I think, to both of us, it was more. I felt treasured by someone I could have only dreamed up. It was romantic. It was intoxicating. It was wonderful. Because of location. Because of his beauty. And, even because of its brevity.

Sometimes I dream of going to Paris and finding Jojo's antique store. I walk in, ringing the bell hanging over the door frame. Nicholo rounds the corner. Our eyes lock, and we embrace. Next there is a cut to the credits rolling over shots of me moving boxes into our Paris apartment with the perfect view of the Seines. Some sort of perfect ending to a romantic comedy.

But, then I think it would be too much. The time was amazing. The experience was perfect. Anything else would be too much. It would press our luck.

I left Greece with a shirt, a ring and some gorgeous pictures, but none of those souvenirs compare with the memories of Nicholo, ones that I fondly remember frequently and will treasure the rest of my life. My French two-day boyfriend.

So, that is why I smile when I see a picture of the Eiffel Tower.

That is why I feel comforted when I hear Le Vie En Rose.

And, that is why I always wonder about the weather in Paris.

the end