On Valentine’s Day three years ago, my husband proposed. I distinctly remember the evening I met him. It was the tail end of May, I had just arrived in Paris, and I was feeling overwhelmed. So much to take in with so little time. After all, I was hoping for the proverbial Parisian romance with only six weeks to make it a reality.
Confident that my comfort in French would help me to win friends or at least get the most out of my trip, I didn’t hesitate to introduce myself to the Parisians I encountered in the residence hall where I was staying. It was during a birthday party for one of my housemates that I met him.
Trying to seduce a good-looking foreign man when you promptly forget everything you ever learned about verb tenses, proper grammar or just piecing together a coherent phrase altogether, is quite the challenge, let me tell you. Still, my uncontrollable blushing and inopportune perspiration must have given off enough of a good impression because we exchanged numbers and were set to go on our first (and perhaps last) date a few days later. I had about 36 hours to pull myself…
