Apparently this is what the French hommes look like. Walking with two mysteriously unfitting older women, I received humored looks from his companions after I had been spotted trying to inconspicuously snap a photo of [this nameless man]. In broken attempts to legitimize, or possibly denounce, my paparazzi tendencies, I approached and asked if I could take his picture for my blog. His “friends,” as I will call them for the time being, seemed thrilled, going on to tell me that he was a célébrité, to which I stuck my head in my butt and apologized for my offensive casualness. My head was soon recovered after learning that no, this was not true. But it was all in good fun, as we shared awkward laughs, email addresses, and the usual happenings. (The going rate for his email address is 50 euros, while supplies last). Lucy Perkins, if you’re reading this, he was roughly 400 feet tall.
*For that “personal element,” i.e. for all of you who are convinced you will meet and have a romantic relationship with him, I will divulge the following information: he says he likes the photographer Terry Richardson, if you want to check him out. (I also partly say this so that I can add Terry Richardson as a tag…is that sad?)
It was the spotting of the deluxe office chair in this parking lot-like urban desert that made me laugh out loud on my bike, necessitating a U-turn to see what these guys were up to. Getting queer looks as I rode towards them, with an awkward amount of interrogative eye-contact on both ends, I slowly coasted my way nearer, stopping just short of the knee high fence that stood between us.
I didn’t know if they were friends, lovers, or nothing (see John Mayer
for further inquiries), nor did it really cross my mind. But when Moustafa slipped away after the arrival of a bright green truck that perfectly matched his outfit, Amina and I got to talking. She told me that her teacher hadn’t shown up to class, so she came to visit Mustafa, her boyfriend, at work. After an alarming display of excitement, I told Amina that I had a section of lovers on my blog (more on that later), and they’d be perfect for it. And so when Moustafa returned, she told him that I took pictures of “des amoureux,” and told him to change his clothes. With a flirty smile, he looked at her and said “everything?” as he stripped off his shirt and replaced it with a blue V-neck, then taking off his neon trousers to reveal the hidden jeans underneath.
“Your shoes too!” She hollered back.
She stood for this one. And I still don’t know where they got the armchair.