Lesson Two

Lesson Number Two:
Even a Toothless Grandmother is Charming if Wearing a Skirt.
(part of a series, beginning with 'Lessons in French Courtship')

Perhaps the most common word I hear is charming. It’s everywhere. While initially flattered that I was effortlessly charming people left and right, I came to understand that this word has very little to do with charisma, but more with leg. In France, charm is directly proportional to the amount of visible leg, whether you’re wearing stockings or none.

The first time I wore a skirt in Paris was also the last. I was headed to a little bar in the fifth arrondissement, and, happy that the weather had turned nice, had decided to celebrate by wearing my then-favorite skirt.

It’s not what you’re thinking. This was before the miniskirt made its unfortunate comeback. (Incidentally, most Parisian women my age wear these miniskirts over jeans.) Not particularly form-fitting or sexy, my skirt hit my legs about an inch above the knees.

But a little inch goes a long way on the streets of Paris. Before I knew it, I was charming the pants off my fellow Parisians. Several times on the way to the metro, men stopped me. Excuse me, mademoiselle, but frankly, I must tell you: you are charming.

Oh was I? My mistake. I thought I was walking quickly and with a purpose. As soon as I realized they weren’t asking for directions and heard the word charming, I hurried on.

Then came the wait on the quai. Line ten. Longest wait between trains. I was sad to see the tail end of a train disappearing into the tunnel as I arrived on the platform. Eight minutes. For my wait, I looked for the poster featuring the most attractive model and stood next to it. I thought that if the men thought I was charming, that at least they’d have some sort of reference point that would set them straight.

No luck. I was quickly approached by a man in his forties, wearing a suit and carrying a bottle of wine. Though I was glad to be approached by one of the lesser vile men on the quai, I still couldn’t entertain come-ons by a man of this age. His opening line? Excuse me, mademoiselle, but I find you quite charming.

Was there a school for this? Do fathers sit down with their sons and teach them the ten vocabulary words of love? I’d heard of charm school before, but this was ridiculous. I told the man, Paragundi safa, mi cazo ne frata. That's right. I was willing to bet he didn’t speak whatever made-up language I was producing. I moved to another bench. He stared at me for six stops before getting off the train.

By the time I reached Teddy’s, which is a good fifteen-minute walk from the metro, I felt defeated. I’d received another dozen charming compliments en route. Feeling that familiar stare in the bar, I covered my legs with my sweater, and as I did, successfully rid myself of all charm for the rest of the night.

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