It's All French to Me. How Do You Say "Love" in French? Part 2

Maiana Rose
1 day ago
5 min read

On a phone call home, I tell a friend that the language barrier might be a good thing. I think it makes me talk less on dates.

I’ve also started saying that I write about love. It just sounds more poetic, more romantic that way.

“Un verre de Sancerre.”

I don’t need another glass of wine…

Me: I write about Lamoooghr.

Him: You write about death?

Me: Um no, l’amouuuur.

Him: Oh, you mean love?

L’amour, he says with the graceful ease of a native speaker. I hear la-meeeuure or something like that.

I try puckering my lips, sucking the walls of my cheeks into the centre of my mouth, forming a concave corridor for the sound to travel through.

L’amouurrre.

Him: Not quite. It’s hard for Americans. That sound. It’s like moo, and just a slight brush over the R, but you kind of drop the end.

I try again.

Him: It’s ok. Close enough.

Me: Well, I think I should know how to say l’amour if I’m writing about it here.

I suppose metaphorically speaking, I am kind of writing about the death of love…aka modern dating.

Or maybe I’m just killing l’amour with my horrible French accent.

Doit aimer les chiens

We planned to meet with our dogs at the park in our neighbourhood. Where we first met. This time it was intentional.

His dog is shy but loves to run, and at the dog park, she’s the most popular. Mine, with her short stubby legs, kind of pudgy, tries to keep up, but eventually gets tired and wanders back over to check in with me. She likes being a dog, but she’ll go for human attention sooner.

They seem to get along.

We walk to a spot I’ve passed many times before.

We sit for a glass of wine. I order un verre de vin orange, which seems to best reflect the time of day: early evening, before le coucher du soleil. He orders a beer. We switch to red later, as the light begins to fade.

I ask if he likes natural wine.

“It’s okay,” he says, “but I have a problem with the pricing.”

Originally, natural wine was an early batch, something to test the product. It wasn’t meant to be priced the same as wine that undergoes a longer ageing process.

“It’s not equal.”

Everywhere carries it now, though.

We order burrata.

I eat so much burrata and bread here, yet somehow I feel lighter than I do in the States. My clothes are looser, if anything. Maybe it’s because I walk so much. I guess it’s very Parisian of me to subsist on bread and cheese. He says he does the same.

He works a lot for a tech consulting company. He’s a partner. How hot. Husband material.

He tells me of his plans, or perhaps just a desire to do something else with his life.

We talk about language. He cannot pronounce squirrel. I try to coach him, as he’s done for me many times. Three glasses later, I don’t feel drunk.

I feel Parisian.

He walks me home.

We kiss, feeling each other’s faces for the first time. Tangled in leashes, our balance was off. The dogs pulled us together and then apart. It makes us laugh.

“Will you write about this?” he asks, almost hopeful.

“I will have to”, I reply.

He thinks for a beat. “I think I’d quite like that,” he says

This is exactly the kind of thing, I think, that makes love feel alive. Or at least romance.

He texts me later that night, saying he wanted to kiss me from the moment we first met.

I’d like to think an American guy would never have said this. Or maybe I just enjoy romanticizing Paris.

Ou peut-être que je ne suis qu’une touriste de plus

Apparently, moving to France isn’t that hard. Some lawyers can do it for a few thousand euros. The rent here is so much more affordable than in New York.

Him: How long will you be here?

Me: I’m only allowed to stay three months at a time, without a visa… I’m going to a wedding in Sevilla in the fall, so I figured I would come back then. My dog has her citizenship now.

I don’t want to leave Paris. I love it here. I’m just not sure how I’d make money. I’m trying to be frugal.

So I bought an amazing jacket for 120 euros. It was a steal, trust me.

The Uber driver told me I could just marry a French guy. Perhaps that’s the way.

On a date, a guy told me that getting married helps to lower taxes… taxes are really high here. So I guess it’s a win-win… as long as I can report no income.

I got asked if I would write a chapter on men who don’t want to date tourists.

They don’t seem to mind. Maybe because there’s always an inevitable au revoir at the end of my stay.

Not much to commit to. It makes things easier.

Him: So what are you looking for here? Short-term romance? A conversation? A friendship?

Me: I don’t really know what I’m looking for. I guess short-term romance. Maybe my heart gets broken. At least I’d have something to write about.

He asked if I came here to get inspired. He said he wouldn’t mind being an inspiration for me.

Le Heatwave

Paris has certainly brought the heat… romantically speaking.

This was not meant as a metaphor. There was an actual heatwave. 31–33 degrees Celsius on average. No AC. A fourth-floor apartment. The kind of heat that makes every task feel optional, and every outfit feel like a mistake.

Apparently, seven people died, at least that’s what my friend told me after reading an article or seeing it on her feed. The source was unclear. The heat was not.

That tends to happen in extreme temperatures.

I was doing everything I could to keep Roo cool. She hated my attempts. But she’s a dog. She doesn’t know what’s best for her.

He asked me to grab a drink next weekend.

Thank god it’s raining now. I can actually write, let alone think.

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.