It's All French to Me. Crumbs Are Still Crumbs... Even in Paris. Part 3

Maiana Rose
2 hours ago
5 min read

Doit aimer les chiens II

Thank god I finally figured out how to get Netflix to work so it’s not dubbed in French. I like it when it’s in English, but has French subtitles. It makes me feel like I am learning.

I get a notification on WhatsApp from the guy I met at the dog park, DPB, asking if I wanted to go for a dog walk on Tuesday. Yes, of course I do.

I’m half-watching Pop Star Academy. I think about how motivated these girls are. I’ve always felt I have some kind of ceiling on my ambitions. Maybe that’s what happens when you’re a great beginner.

“Do I have any lines in Paris?” I ask, hopeful the answer is yes. As if astrology could make Paris make sense for my life.

A friend’s mom in Santa Fe combs through my astrocartography chart.

Not really, at least not for love. Supposedly, I should go to Crete. I don’t really have a Venus conjunct Jupiter here. That’s where I’d be lucky in love. Crete would be good. No clue what I’d do there for money, but if all else fails, maybe I’ll try it.

Tuesday comes around. I’m feeling strangely emotional, a little lost. It’s rainy. I don’t want to cancel.

He messages me that he’s waiting outside my place.

Roo and I hurry down the narrow staircase.

He’s wearing his suit from work. He looks good in a suit. It’s hot. I apologize, I am wearing a black jersey T-shirt and basketball shorts. I look like I’m ready for a dog walk.

He kisses me on the cheek. And another. Deux bisous for the formality.

The fun part about greeting someone in Paris is that you get to kiss on the cheek right away.

He complains about his work, the weather, now that it’s rainy. He tells me French people love to complain.

“Jews do too,” I say.

I tell him about my latest explorations of the word cringe, in my writing and in my conversations.

He says it’s better to be a little cringe. I agree.

There’s something steady about him. Like, I have this feeling he’d be a great boyfriend if I lived here. But it’s the fact that I don’t. The fact that we can’t really build anything.

Maybe that’s why I feel une petite triste.

I’m sure he doesn’t want to get attached. Why would he?

But there’s something sweet about the connection.

I’d never met someone at the dog park before. We have a cute story. It feels like a cheesy rom-com. I can’t help it, I’ve started attracting more of these moments since I started writing about it.

Manifest destiny, maybe. Or it’s just confirmation bias.

We kiss goodbye again. The walk is brief. He’s tired from work.

Drafted. Never Sent.

“Alors…”

I sent it at 9 pm, Wednesday night. Five days after I last saw you. It means “so…”

I could have sent it in English, but I felt like using French would pack more of a punch. Just one word, plus a dot dot dot (aka an ellipsis), as if to imply I’m not sure how to proceed.

Language matters. How and when, even more so.

You’ve told me you love the English word leeway, you told me you learned it from Brits and you use it often in your work.

I prefer to leave people to their own liberties. Plus, I think that’s a more commonly used phrase, at least in American English.

I tried to tell you this, but you said you still prefer the word leeway. So I give you the leeway here to see if you will say anything. Of course, you don’t. That’s why I texted you “Alors…”

Let’s backtrack. That morning, I woke up before you. Your energy felt cold and distant. We woke up with slightly more space between us.

I wanted to leave as soon as I woke up. Maybe that’s telling. You said you didn’t sleep well.

Perhaps your nervous system wasn’t relaxed.

I asked if maybe it was il faut dire que certaines poudres.

But you said it had worn off earlier in the night.

Then you paused, as if to say something more, and stopped yourself. Perhaps because it wasn’t nice.

So you passed up the opportunity to share.

You gave me a kiss me goodbye, but it felt un peu détaché. Unlike the previous times.

You said “talk soon”… I’m not convinced you would reach out.

So I rushed out of your house.

I won’t share this with you. So I’ll just send a message and say “So…” in your language, so you understand.

I’m not sure how to proceed.

But I want to know.

Fruits de mer, et une thèse

I felt like crawling back into my bed, but I had a plan to meet someone for lunch.

It was too late to cancel, so I leaned into feeling raw, with oysters and crudo.

A food market where you can sit and eat the freshest seafood, only on the weekend, though.

He escaped a cult at 35. He was living in another reality just north of Paris. He would commute into the city for work, but his beliefs carved a narrow view of the world, so he remained slightly separate from it. Leaving was the hardest thing he had ever had to do. He lost everyone close to him. He’s now an atheist.

He’s an introvert but has a good sense of humor. Like many Frenchmen, he cuts straight to the point.

He asks why I’m single.

I tell him, “Bad choices.”

By choice… not choosing people to settle down with. I value my autonomy. I feel complete, and I love the idea of finding my person. I don’t always behave like someone who is looking for something to last.

He tells me a story that feels like it could be a thesis drawn from months of immersive research.

During his studies, ten French men peer over a cadaver under a British professor. The sound of a woman’s heels clicks down the hallway. All the men turn toward the door. There’s a woman in the building.

“You French men,” the British professor mocks.

“French men are Latin,” he says with pride.

“Maybe the least Latin of the Latin cultures, but it’s still in our blood.”

La poursuite de la femme…

Un Faux Pas

A few likes on Instagram, but no words from you.

It doesn't take fluency in any language to read between the lines. In the c'est la vie spirit, I thought I'd let it be.

Still, I couldn't help but say something when I noticed you'd changed your dating app photo.

Yet…I couldn't bring myself to reply to your last message.

You said you were busy, stressed, that your intention wasn't to disappear... or to hurt me. I didn't think it was. I believe you were genuinely sorry.

I just wasn't sure what else to say.

After all, this is dating, actuellement. A faux ami: actually doesn't have the same meaning as actuellement.

Faux amis: translates as "false friends," but describes words that look or sound alike, whilst meaning something entirely different. Close enough to be mistaken. Different enough to disappoint.

I don't think you're a bad person.

Il y a peut-être quelque chose.

It's just... crumbs are still crumbs.

Even if they come from my favorite French pastry.

Maybe I should opt for the green juice instead. I think I've been in France too long, and I don't want it to end.

But c'est la vie.

About the Series

It's All French to Me is an ongoing narrative series by Maiana Rose, an American author, illustrator, and cultural commentator living in Paris. Through diary-style essays, she documents the realities of modern dating in the city from an American perspective, blending personal experience with cultural observation. As the series unfolds, Maiana explores how romance, identity, place, and emotional connection shift across cultures, one encounter at a time.