There are hippies outside of my room at the Shalom Hotel in Antigua, Guatemala. They are talking about hippy things: moons, festivals, drugs, and menstrual cycles. One is a dirty Frenchman, the other is a New Zealand woman. The woman is not really a hippy; rather, she is just politely absorbing the courtship shrapnel that [...]
There are hippies outside of my room at the Shalom Hotel in Antigua, Guatemala. They are talking about hippy things: moons, festivals, drugs, and menstrual cycles. One is a dirty Frenchman, the other is a New Zealand woman. The woman is not really a hippy; rather, she is just politely absorbing the courtship shrapnel that the Frenchman is throwing out with alarming alacrity.
I am waiting for him to give her the pickup line. I have found that Frenchmen tend to be very bold with their pickup lines, and I was taking notes, as well as making jokes, from my hidden vantage point inside my open-windowed room. I knew that he was going to give it to her at any time. The courtship dance in France seems to be far more direct than it is in most other places in the world that I have traveled. I have always questioned the ease that the French seem to be able to find sex partners that is mentioned in the books of Hemingway, Henry Miller, and all of those other authors who write very graphically of France (and it seems to have been very much in vogue to mention the street names of Paris in those days). These writers would mention how people in France could arrange to have sex with a stranger from just a passing look in the street. I had a hard time believing this before I had the privilege of watching a Frenchman in action. They are good, they do not seem to have any reservations about proposing sex to a nearly unsuspecting female. The differences in the courtship dances of other cultures interests me, and in France, more than anywhere else, this process seems to be very much on the table.
So I am waiting for this dreadlocked French hippy to make his move on the girl from New Zealand. She is pretty, I must admit it, and after three months alone in Guatemala I have a fleeting suspicion that she is also a little horny. If I am as bold as to make such a statement, I think that Mira had to chase her off of me earlier in the day. To try to get into the pants of this New Zealand woman the Frenchman tried to weave her into his tales of full moons and sun rises, the spirituality behind Mayan cities and the spirituality behind drugs. We were getting really close to the pickup line now. The Frenchman was reeling her in for the kill. Menstrual cycles – he began talking about menstrual cycles, perhaps to show what an understanding, worldly, and lady friendly Frenchman he really is. The pickup line is going to come at any time…I know it . . .
“Would you like to go see a movie?” he suddenly asked. There it was! There it was! The pickup line!
Will she fall for it??????
NO! I cheer! I celebrate! The dirty Frenchman got shot right down! Back to your room Dirty Frenchman! I laugh.
The wise words of the New Zealand girl:
“No, I have some other things to do tonight.”
It is nearly nine PM in a city where she does not have a single friend. This girl clearly had nothing to do on such a night.
I think it is high time for the Kiwi to rearrange her sock drawer, as she cleverly averts the advances of a dirty Frenchman.
Dirty Frenchmen make me laugh.
I call him a dirty Frenchman because he was from France and really was dirty.