The tall
dark stranger sits in the hotel restaurant moving pasta round a bowl. He is clearly in need of some cheering up. I
ask him if he’s English? His looks aren’t lost on me, but that’s not my main
motivation. There’s a slim possibility that I might be able to have a
conversation with someone. I’ve not had one of those all day. What’s there to
loose? “Non – Je
suis Francais”. Oh.
We chat, I
listen intently – French was my worst subject at school. I don’t really
understand him. Living abroad I honed my talent for looking like I know what is
going on when I don’t have a clue. He is a computer programmer who wants to
learn English. I add him on Facebook, and we go our own ways. In the morning I
see him tapping away at his laptop. We talk about the UK with the help of
Google maps, and which of the various accents of Britain it might be easier for
a Frenchman to understand.
Several
weeks later, I am looking at FB. I wonder what ever did happen to that chap I
met. Did he ever come to the UK? I message him. He has moved to Birmingham just
this week. Brilliant. I will be in Birmingham next week with work so we can
meet.
Monday night
is Kizomba night. I hadn’t heard of it either, but he was keen and I’ve been to
a few Swing dances so how hard could it be pick up some new moves. Wikipedia says Kizomba is one of the most popular genres of
dance and it originated in Angola. It apparently has a slow romantic rhythm and
is a cross between African dance and Haitian Kompa. I did my research. This
situation had potential. I’d like to make it clear at this point that the
object of my desire had absolutely no idea that this was date.
I went dressed to impress.
Classy black and teal floral wrap around dress and heels; And plastered in ‘au
natural’ makeup, using the look guys describe as, “she never wears makeup”.
We’ve all been there when a male friend has said that about a fellow temptress
and the phrase, “Seriously dude? Should’ve gone to Specsavers, she is caked,” pops
into our minds.
The dance class is at a bar.
I’m 10 minutes late. Heels are hard to walk in and I suffer from genetic
lateness. True story. I read somewhere late people are more creative. I’ll take
that one. As I walk through the door he’s there sitting waiting and he stands.
He’s the same as I remember: Handsome, very polite and also really hard to
understand. We get a drink and chat before the class starts. He doesn’t know
it’s a date.
The class starts. I quickly
work out this Haitian/Portuguese/African rhythm is not so straight forward,
especially in heels, and my hips really don’t move in that direction. Emergency
measures are required. The speedy shoe swap to flat sandals ensues. Elegance is
overrated and this chap is very serious about Kizomba. There’s huge pressure to
demonstrate improvement.
It’s a usual affair where the
men stay in one place and the women cycle round. The idea is that you learn
from lots of different dancers. Normally there’s a concept of personal space in
paired dancing, but this dance is VERY close. I was wondering at what point
when our bodies where pressed against each other and our cheeks an inch apart,
my date would realize that I thought he was quite attractive. But he was very focused
on the dancing, and he still didn’t know it was a date.
Everyone else knew it was a
date. As I rotated down the line, the men asked me about him. “Shhh”, I
responded, “he doesn’t know”.
After the class there was free
dance time and we stayed and practiced. He considered that skill development
was essential given my earlier performance. Romance was not on his mind.
The commentary in my mind
registers this is most definitely a rebound attraction, where I've combined all
the characteristics of both my new find and my ex into one perfect superman. The
mystery is a taller younger yet less eccentric less forgiving version of the Frenchman
I knew and loved. I learn quite how forgiving my ex was when I am corrected on
my verbal expression. Last summer, I had met my ex’s family and had
shamelessly, or I like to think courageously, tried to speak French as much as
possible. Now I learn that my pronunciation of 'beaucoup', is closer to 'beau
cul'. The subtle difference being that one means 'many/much' and the other
means, 'beautiful arse'. God knows what I said to his family!?
After Kizomba, I was keen to
share the delights of Birmingham and chat more, so I took him on a scenic route
past the canal. It always looks very beautiful and romantic at night with the
light reflecting on the water, and it would be a perfect location for a kiss.
But, no this was not to happen. Now, it actually looked like I was terrible at
directions as it’s taking an awkwardly long time to get to where our routes were
to diverge. It was a path slightly longer than I remembered. Eventually we
reach the underpass, with the graffiti on the walls, the unflattering neon
light and the distinctive smell of urine. Excellent skills me. This is where we
must go our separate ways. I stand close and look up to him. “Do you want me to
kiss you?” and I smile-nod. Hoorah. Finally he knows it’s a date. And we have a
lovely long kiss!!!
Right on cue, some drunken
revelers walk by and shout, “Get a room”. Thanks guys, my hotel is just over
there. The Frenchman met me every day for two weeks. He seemed to appreciate a room
with a view.
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