Sex and the 60 – Paris - Ooh la la!

I pulled the newly purchased scarf closer and tightened my zipper around my neck. It was another cold and gloomy day and I wondered why I had agreed to this trip - a trip that had promised to get me out of my funk and put a different spin on being alone (still and always). My friend Miranda, the high-powered international executive was needed in Europe – specifically Paris. She was leaving in three days.

“Come with me Samantha! It’ll be fun. I’ll work during the day, you can sightsee then at night we can have great food and maybe, just maybe meet….?

“Don’t say it Miranda. I’m done with dating.... If I can’t find a match on Match, going 4000 miles to a foreign country won’t suddenly yield a different outcome. Besides, you’re leaving in 72 hours. I just couldn’t get it together by then.”

But Miranda was unrelenting. “Come on, you remember being impulsive - how about that trip to Aruba?” Miranda had been dredging up every spontaneous thing I had ever done from throwing the Spalding over the school yard fence when I couldn’t get to U in ‘A my name is…’ to this incident, one of the most impetuous things I had ever done.

But I did remember Aruba. My “eventually-to-be first husband” had cancelled on me 18 hours before we were to leave because of work obligations and I was so mad I just got on the plane not thinking that I might spend seven days in a tropical paradise alone. But I met the blonde Adonis on the plane going over. He was an American Airlines mechanic from California. He had a few days off and decided to take whatever flights connected to some place steamy. There he was, “Mr. whatever his name was”. I still have pictures of him in my secrets box... Hmmm, the idea began to grow on me. Take a break from Samantha and just be a mysterious American tourist in fabulous dresses and strappy sandals, studying the intricacies of the Mona Lisa at the Louvre and eating hunks of bread, piles of croissants, pain au chocolat and a myriad of other carbs I had forsaken to keep my thighs from rubbing together when I walked.

So, convinced, here I sat at 8:30 a.m. on day number three of my trip to Paris…the temperature had not gone above 58 degrees during the day and you could see your breath at night. My fleece jacket, jeans, socks, three layers of tee shirts and sneakers were the only things I had warm enough to wear while my new clothes, the one’s I rushed to buy the day before we left, hung forlornly in the hotel closet. “Un café, please” I ordered my fourth coffee of the morning. Today, overcast as usual, there was the addition of a wet mist that threatened to defeat my best hair efforts.

The café near the hotel was on a picturesque square with a Boulanger, Patisserie, a couple of Creperies and a Hagan Daz. It was a crossroads and at this hour local Parisians pass through on their way to the Metro. I stared ahead, sipping my coffee, thinking about what I had hoped May in Paris would be like. I saw the movement out of the corner of my eye but was too lazy to bring the image into focus. It crossed from right to left. Then it stopped and I raised my eyes toward it. There stood a picture-perfect man - late 50ish, salt and pepper cropped hair, about 6’2”. He wore dark slacks, with laced up Italian leather shoes, an overcoat, as long and lean as he was. It opened to a white shirt, leather belt with silver buckle, a loose tie around his neck and the ubiquitous Parisian scarf wrapped casually around. He was looking directly at me. I had the urge to look behind me to see who he was looking at but forced myself to appear aloof and uninterested. He had stopped in the middle of the square and when we made eye contact he cocked his head to the side and a smile slowly spread across his face. I was embarrassed, confused, suddenly shy and I quickly averted my eyes. He stood still for a few seconds then moved on across the square out of sight. What was that? I put it out of my head and spent the day pouring over every item in the Musée des Arts Décoratifs, keeping warm and dry.

The next day, again at my café, this time with a perfectly baked croissant and a cappuccino, leafing through my guidebook, my instincts told me to look up. There he was again. But today he continued walking, looking at me all the way until he was out of sight, smiling. I tracked him until he disappeared behind the corner of a building and just as I began to look away; he peeked around the building, gave me a brilliant smile and was gone. OMG, could this be happening? I looked down at my drab quilted jacket and scruffy sneakers…Nah! It was definitely not happening.

I didn’t mention the incident to Miranda. I knew she would blow off a meeting just to see what he looked like and she would be merciless in her “I told you so…”

“Where are you going?” Miranda asked as I put on one of my new dresses and buckled my heeled sandals the next morning. I was determined to show him my “assets” despite the weather. After all I only had four more days in Paris.

“I just thought I’d wear one of my outfits. After all, I brought them all the way here.”

Miranda laughed. “Oh, I know you Samantha, something is definitely up. Come on, tell me”.

“Miranda, there is nothing going on, just tired of wearing the same thing everyday….leave me alone!” But I couldn’t look her in the eye and she knew, she definitely knew - something was up.

Miranda took a call as I prepped my make-up. “Yes, OK, no it’s not convenient, but I’ll make it work” I heard her say before she abruptly hung up. “Damn, Samantha, I’m sorry, but I have to go to London. I’ll be back in 2 days. Then we’ll still have a couple of days before we head back to the states. I’d say you should come with me but I know the London office and this will be a very intensive couple of days and nights. You can if you want”.

Assessing myself in the mirror I really only had one thing on my mind – getting to the café on time to be sure I didn’t miss him. I brushed off Miranda’s invitation, “No, there are so many sites to see here, I think I’ll stay put and wait for you here – it is just two nights”.

“OK…Wow,” Miranda said as she appraised me “Jungle Red lipstick….something is definitely up!”

When I arrived at the café, freezing and thankful for the propane heaters that were installed under the awning I was jolted by the sight of him sitting at the table I had been at the day before. What should I do? Go up to him, say hello? I decided to be the mysterious American that I had fantasized about and sat two tables away, ordered a Café Crème and fought to look like my toes were not already frozen and turning blue.

Suddenly he was talking to me – “J'ai eu envie de vous parler”. I didn’t understand a word he said but his voice was like melted butter – He looked like his voice sounded. “Je ne parle pas français - je parle anglais”. That was nearly the extent of my French vocabulary. I had had to practice it for days to get it right too. “Je parle anglais un peu, mais pour vous je vais essayer.” I didn’t care what he was saying; I just wanted to hear him speak. “You be Américain?” “Yes, New York City,” I lied, but what the hey, I am a born and bred New Yorker. My coffee arrived and he said something to the waiter, handed him some Euros, obviously paying. He had also handed the waiter a card to give to me as he passed my table. “Merci” I said, looking quickly from the waiter to my “dream come true.” I looked down at the business card in my hand. Alain Moreau, Architect. I smiled and nodded my approval. We sat silently both sipping our coffee – his an espresso, of course. He checked his watch, “Je dois aller travailler, mais serez-vous demain?” Huh??? “Ouu, work”, he said as he stood to leave. He reached for my hand, held it in both of his and simply said “tomorrow?” “Oui”, I managed. Oh, oui! Yes, yes indeed oui, oui!

The next morning I found him already at a table playing with a hand-held device. I slid into the chair next to him as he politely rose half out of his chair. “Bonjour”, I said so proud of my command of the French language. “Good morning” he smiled that radiant smile. With coffee ordered, he showed me what he was holding. It was a portable translator. You typed in words in French and the English translations appeared on the screen and vice versa. He spent a minute or two typing in some sentences and then handed me the device. The screen said “I have to go to work today but can I see you tomorrow? Take you sightseeing in Paris? Please say yes.” I typed in – “Yes, I’d like that very much” “Oui, j'aimerais que beaucoup”. The translator filled in the details with us meeting at the café at 9 a.m. and he was gone. I spent the day buying some suitably sexy but warmer attire, having my nails and hair done and getting waxed all over!

Miranda called to say that it looked like she would not be getting back to Paris. She sounded so distraught leaving me on my own and again suggested I fly or take the train to London but I declined. The only thing she said before we hung up was “You’d better tell me all the details - every last one! I know something is up!” Oh yes, definitely something was up.

The next day was a whirlwind…First, the Eiffel Tower, then, Notre Dame, a lunch of fresh oysters and Muscadet at a tiny fish market on the right bank. In the afternoon we picked up his car – a BMW Z-4 - and went to Versailles. We didn’t talk much – but we didn’t need to. The translator allowed me to find out that he was born and bred just outside of Paris, separated from his wife of 34 years with 2 grown children. By afternoon we were holding hands and after stopping back at the hotel to allow me to change (he waited in the lobby) we had a late dinner at a trendy restaurant in the Latin Quarter before a midnight boat ride on the Seine. It was an amazing day – a real fantasy. Outside the door to my hotel room he kissed me with some urgency and I kissed him with equal fervor. I had already told him, using the translator, that tomorrow was my last full day and night in Paris and he asked if he could spend that last day with me. “Absolument” (Abso-freakin-lutely).

The following day started with a visit to one of Paris’ fabulous markets. The array of food was breathtaking. Everything was beautiful, fresh and the variety of cheeses, breads, smoked meats, fruits and vegetables was like something I had never seen. He made a careful selection to fill the lunch basket he had brought and I guessed we would be picnicking somewhere that afternoon.

Again in his car we made our way toward the Loire Valley, passing field after field of mustard – all in bloom – this amazing chartreuse color as far as the eye could see. Stopping at the Chateau de Chambord and picking up a couple of bottles of Chenin Blanc at a local winery before visiting the amazing Chenoceau castle which spans a river! We ate our picnic lunch and drank our first bottle of wine there. Yes, it almost happened there, on the blanket that he had spread under a 300 year old tree. But the sound of nearby children restrained us and frankly the anticipation which had been building for days now was as delicious as the French delicacies. Back to Paris we made plans for dinner and I showered and changed and met him at a café on St. Germaine. He looked fantastical in a charcoal wool suit, dark trench coat and paisley scarf – he seemed too good to be true!

So it was midnight in Paris, we stood on the Pont Neuf looking at the lights on Notre Dame, just steps from my hotel. It was a wonderland – a true fantasy - and he said “Puis-je vous faire l'amour”. I did not know what he said but I wanted to do it too. At the door to my hotel room, knowing that this was our last, our only night together, I handed him my room key and we slipped inside….

In the middle of the night I remember hearing him breathing softly next to me. I moved closer and he turned, wrapped his body around mine and I drifted back to sleep…

The techno music I have programmed on my cell phone alarm startled me awake. The moment I was fully awake I knew he was gone. You know how you can sense it without seeing it…the aloneness. But what was odd was there was absolutely no indication that he had ever been there. No dent in his pillow, the champagne glasses were washed and back on the shelf, my clothes were not strewn about where I had shed them, but neatly hung up. I quickly got up and walked into the bathroom. Everything was neat, the towels lined up, the shower stall dry as a bone – had we really showered together? On the bedside table sat the only thing I now had from him….that business card he had given me three days ago. But, the sexy strip-tease, the strawberries, the champagne, the mind-blowing sex? Had it happened? Was it real? Could I have imagined it all….Could I?

See you next time.

Sex and the 60 - The LOSERS!

Did you know that there are nearly 96 million singles over the age of 18 in the USA? This according to a US Census Bureau Report issued in 2009 at the start of last year’s Single’s Week. Oh boy, what a celebration we had last year --- remember? Huh? I just found out that Single’s Week is September 15 – 21. Ironically that is the week that Kevin deteriorated and died in 2007 and I became one of the single statistics. Do you think they developed the “holiday” so that I could celebrate my new status every year? Nah…just one of those creepy coincidences.

Anyway, just so you are well informed --- there are just under 1.2 single women for every man in the USA. Hmm, ok not terrible odds but wait, it gets worse - and drastically! There are 3.2 single women for every man over 65 in the US. Yikes…I better hurry; they appear to be dropping like flies, particularly between the ages of 60 – 65! But why, why, why is it so difficult? I have a good body for a 60-year-old, I don’t look my age, I am ALIVE, spirited, interesting and interested. Why are the guys online in this age group so….well, soooooo… let’s be blunt – they are LOSERS. I detailed some of them in my last Blog – The Dream. No I did not make those things up. I met men with those nightmarish traits – just not all in one night. Carrie and I have been talking about this – disagreeing in fact.

“No, they are not all losers, Samantha. I met some very nice men – they were just not right for me.” Carrie said with a hint of annoyance. She hated when I generalized and I always generalize, because well, in general I am always right!

“Carrie, each of your nice men had something wrong with them – yes they did – they were LOSERS.” I sniped back. “One wore a white turtleneck with a blue blazer and khaki pants. If that isn’t loser attire I don’t know what is! And how about the one that wouldn’t buy you lunch because you chose the place instead of agreeing to his suggestion? Or the one that brought you home in that terrible rainstorm and couldn’t get out of your driveway fast enough when you said you hoped you didn’t have water in your basement? These are not losers?”

“Well, yes, all that happened and maybe some of them were losers but…most of them were nice and interesting, just not for me,” she stubbornly declared.

“And how about my men – there was the Munchkin, The Sludge Engineer, the Black and White Man…oh and many, many others I have not yet released for publication!” I was screaming now. “They are the definition of LOSER!!”

So what’s the problem? These are the same men who were my age when I was in my 20s and 30s. Did something happen to them in the 30 – 40 intervening years? Why, why, why are they so unappealing now? I had to figure this out….what was the common denominator in all of them. AHA! They are all divorced. Now, let me walk you through this….they are divorced and why do men divorce their wives? Here I go generalizing again, for another woman, of course, a younger woman, a more interested woman, a more agile woman. So, if these men are divorced where is their “other woman”? AHA, they don’t have one. If they left for another woman they would not be on line looking at me! These guys have been the object of the divorce. They have been DIVORCED BY. Now, stay with me. Why do women divorce men – in general? They cheat, they are abusive, they gamble, they do drugs, drink, are boring and uninteresting, in other words – they are (all together now!) LOSERS!

So, you see, except for the widowed and the few needle in the haystack good guys who just couldn’t take their LOSER wives any longer. The preponderance of men on online dating sites are – YES, LOSERS. Suddenly it all made sense. These are the guys I wouldn’t date in my 20s and 30s so of course I cannot find a match. As I always say: “One woman’s garbage is another woman’s – garbage.” We’re not stupid!

So let’s go back to statistics. (Do we have to?) According to www.divorcereform.org 36% of men over 60 are divorced. An AARP magazine article (A House Divided by Elizabeth Enright in 2004) reported that 66% of divorces over the age of 50 are initiated by the woman – you go girl! So what does this all mean? Well to me it means that there is no end to the number of women trying to attract the one non-loser guy among the hundreds of them on the internet….Oh, what’s the use - the average male life span in the USA is only 72 years!

I’m looking for an island to start a Geriatric Amazon Nation. The hell with it.

See you next time!