the weather in paris, part two

Part 2

When we arrived at the table, a man like none that I have ever met was waiting there. Completely bald but very tan, he wore a cream colored, light knit sweater and cream colored, well-fitted shorts. His feet sported knee-high, dark brown leather boots with cream canvas trim. In each ear, he wore gold hoop earrings that were bigger than rings but smaller than door knockers. He looked at my quizzically but pleasantly when I arrived.

"Hello," he stated. "I am Georgio." He offered his hand to me like a true Southern belle.
Like "Name that Tune," I tried to place the accent in four words, but I was drawing a blank.

"Georgio?" I clarified as I delicately shook his hand.

"Well, yes, Georgio but everyone calls me JoJo."

"I'm Chad."

"Nice to meet you, Chad," JoJo responded.

"Yes, nice to meet you," my friend from the bar said. "I'm Nicholo."

It occurred to me that I had not exchanged names with him. Here I had helped him through international negotiations over a turkey sandwich, and I never discovered his name. International protocol was not my strongest skill apparently.

"How old are you, Chad?" JoJo asked.

Wow, these Europeans get right to the point. But, I guess being the one that wears the dark leather boots with cream canvas trim gives you the right to ask the questions.

"I'm thirty-three," I answered.

"The same age as Jesus when He died," commented Jojo.

They know about Jesus? This is perfect!

In an effort to quickly change the focus, I asked, "How old are y'all?"

I wasn't sure if "y'all" would translate, but old habits die hard. You can take the boy out of his country but you can't take the country out of the boy.

"How old do you think I am?" Jojo not only knew an excllent amount of English, but he also knew games gay men play that apparently are global in nature.

"Oh, no," I said. "I hate to guess age. I'm horrible at it." It's true. I always find those age/weight guessing booths at amusement parks fascinating. Like walking through walls or morphing into different animals, guessing someone's age seems like a super power. Plus, his well-settled tan would throw even the best age-guesser off.

"I am 42," he said confidently.

"Okay, 42. That's great." And, it was believable. Yes, he was completely bald and looked older, but all of the severe tanning he has done make an old looking 42 a viable option.

Nicholo laughed.

"He's not 42?" I asked Nicholo.

"No, he is not 42."

JoJo gave Nicholo a playful slap on the arm and said something playfully scolding in French. "If you must know, I am 56 years old." He contributed this less confidently and slightly offended, making an adjustment to his sweater the same time. Apparently, a gay man's discomfort with growing older is a world-wide phenomenon.

"Fifty-six is great," I offered, although I didn't know what I meant. Was I saying that he looked good for 56? Was I saying I can't wait to be 56? Was I saying 56 years old is the prime of life when the best things happen? I'm not sure what I meant, but I'm pretty sure it was none of those things because I didn't I believe any of them.

"Thank you," JoJo replied with a nod. "How old is Nicholo?" he asked, pointing to his friend.
I looked at Nicholo who had been working on his turkey sandwich while I guessed JoJo's age. Even with his mouth full of his dinner, he still sported dimples when he smiled.

"No, seriously. I'm really bad at guessing age."

"Nicholo turns 24 tomorrow," JoJo said as a proud father as he patted my new friend on the back.
"Tomorrow is your birthday?"

"Oui," Nicholo answered, almost shyly.

"Yes, I brought him here for his birthday," JoJo said. "This trip is his birthday present."

"Well, Happy Birthday," I offered.

"Merci," Nicholo replied with another smile.

"He is 24 but acts like he is 40," Jojo joked.

"Oh, please, no," Nicholo quickly responded. "I am innocent," lifting his shoulders and hands in a shrug with a little pout on his face.

I gave him my one-eyebrow raise. "You're innocent?" I asked suspiciously. "A hot, young gay Frenchman is innocent?"

"Oh yes, I am innocent," he said, nodding like a child trying to convince an adult that he did not leave the Kool-Aid stain on the carpet.

I lowered my eyebrow and my mouth changed into crooked smile I give to someone I am smitten for. I kind of believed him.

The three of us continued to talk for another hour or so. I learned that JoJo was actually from Italy and moved to Paris several years ago. There, he owned a very successful antique dealership. Unlike the "Vote for Nixon" buttons or 1950's school desks I would find in antique stores here in the United States, he dealt with high-end, truly authentic antiques. With a store in Paris (where Nicholo worked) and another location in Cannes, his client base included Christina Aguilera's manager and Sean Connery's wife. It was clear that he was doing pretty well for himself.

Occasionally, JoJo and Nicholo would share an exchange in French. It was never too prolonged and sometimes was just an effort to translate a word from French to English, for my benefit. Finally, after the sun had set and Nicholo had finished his sandwich (of which he gave me a quarter), they spoke of their dinner plans. There seemed to be some negotiations of what they were craved. Finally when a decision had been made (Italian), they were on their way to their room to prepare for the rest of the evening.

"Would you like to join us for dinner?" JoJo invited.

The prospect of continuing the conversation with these strangers, these fascinating foreigners seemed infinitely more appealing than eating somewhere by myself. Plus, Nicholo was gorgeous. Some things don't require a wise voice over to help make the right decision.

"Sure. That'd be great."

And, it was. We separated briefly to prepare ourselves for dinner (but not being a well-versed world traveler, I had not brought different outfits for pre-dinner drinks and then dinner. As they added different accessories or layers to their look, I paced the room wondering how to keep Over Analytical American Chad out of this so that Fly-By-The-Seat-Of-His-Pants Globe Trotting Chad could have a good time. The knock came at my door. My head sharply turned to it. I have a Frenchman picking me up for dinner in Greece. I felt as though I suddenly was in one of those body-changing movies like Freak Friday and some other poor sap was on my couch eating a pint of ice cream while watching "Love Actually" with a cat on his lap.

"Are you ready?" Nicholo said when I answered the door.

READERS' NOTE: Seriously, whenever I write "Nicholo said," you might need to read it out loud in a French accent because I don't know about you but some guy saying to me "Are you ready?" in a French accent solicits the same response as putting a stick of butter in the microwave for a minute… I melt into a pool. Then again, if a guy said to me, "I've got a hairy, acne-covered ass" in a French accent, I still would melt. The French accent is a powerful aphrodisiac—my sexual kryptonite.

"Sure, let's go," I replied, acting as if something like this happens to me every day.

JoJo rented a sports utility vehicle, so the three of us loaded in and headed down to the same area of town I had staked out earlier in the day. The time it took to drive and park was the same as if we had walked, but being that JoJo still wore the canvas, knee-high boots with the dark leather trim, I'm sure the choice to drive was based more on comfort instead of timing… And being that they were European, I believe most of their decisions of life were based on these criteria. Fashion above function at all times. God love 'em.

JoJo selected an Italian food restaurant for dinner that evening. Having an Italian pick an Italian restaurant is quite a process, but by the time we were seated at our table (Nicholo to my right, JoJo across the table from him), I felt as if we were at the best possible restaurant on the island of Mykonos. You have not seen high maintenance until you have encountered a gay Italian, French-antique dealer.

I don't remember much of the dinner or of the conversation.

I remember overalls. Overall, the dinner was great. Overall, the wine was fantastic. Overall, the conversation was incredible and comfortable. But, through the vagueness of the food, the wine and the conversation, a few clear moments still exist.

One involved Nicholo asking me, the token American, what "Sacre Bleu" means.

"You Americans always think we say sacre bleu. 'Oh, no, something bad happened! Sacre bleu!' But we do not say this... It means nothing to us." Then letting his French accent grow thicker and thicker and thicker as if he was imitating another Frenchman, he said, "Sacre bleu! Sacre bleu! Sacre bleu!" Then, back to his normal voice, "Why?"

Not working for the United Nations, I had no answer... plus I was laughing because sounded so much like Lumiere from Beauty and the Beast.

Later, as we waited for our food to arrive, Nicholo again began to assert his innocent nature, claiming he truly was an innocent guy. He then started campaigning for his romantic nature as well. The conversation moved on to other topics. Later, while JoJo spoke in Italian to the manager of the restaurant, Nicholo took the small potted flower arrangement from the middle of the table and placed it in front of me.

"For you," he said. "I got this for you for this evening."

"Look at you," I said. "You are romantic."

"Yes," he replied. "I told you. I am very romantic."

My smitten smile returned.

After dinner, which JoJo paid for, we went to Porta. This was a gay bar like thousands of gay bars around the world – DJ playing the latest dance mixes with men carrying on conversations with their friends while eyeing the rest of the room. If a gay man could work his neck so that it could do a complete 360 degree turn like an owl to scan the room for hot boys, I believe he would. There are some places you could hold a meaningful, eye-to-eye conversation with a gay man; these places include anywhere there is not another man they find remotely attractive in the nearby vacinity. If you want a gay man to focus on what you are saying, have the conversation at a nunnery or a women's prison. Those are your best options.

When we entered, I could see it. I walked behind Nicholo and I could see the heads turn as he passed. He was like a water skier leaving a wake behind him. I've seen this phenomenon before with my very good looking friends. The irony is that most of them are unaware of their affect on the room (which makes them even more attractive). I've got to remember to start walking in front of people like this. It's as if the headliner of a concert goes first; no one stays around to see the opening act.

We stayed for one drink and then headed to our next destination, another bar where more people congregated and danced outside than actual in the bar itself. With the beautiful weather in Greece during June, it made perfect sense. By this point of the evening and this point of my alcohol intake, I had to find a restroom, so I went up to the bar to ask where I could find one. There tending bar was the same Australian lesbian from earlier at the hotel."This is a small island," she said. "You're going to be seeing me a lot."

This is it. I've landed in fairy tale (no pun intended). Somehow, I have a hot French Prince Charming and an Australian lesbian bartender fairy godmother. Not quite the glass slipper tale I had in mind, but I was not about to start complaining.

When I returned from the restroom, Jojo started his goodbyes. "I think I will go back to the hotel now," he said. "I am full and tired. But, I will see you tomorrow." He said a farewell to Nicholo in French, gave us both kisses and hugs and headed to his car. Too often, I still have the unrealistic notion that time freezes in other people's lives when I am not around. Months later, I realized a conversation occurred while I was in the bathroom and this was an intentional move of both of their parts.

With our chaperone now gone, we were on our own. I was on a date… in Greece… with a French man. I had to do a quick inventory. Was I still Chad Peterson? Was this the same boy that sucked his thumb until he was 8? Was I the same boy that grew up in Corpus Christi, Texas, spending all his free time with his church youth group? Was I the same boy who was scared to go away to college? Was this the same life I was leading? Did I skip tracks and jump into someone else's life? Did I fall into some dream sequence? Was this my life?

to be continued...