This day was bound to come. Meeting the parents at Sunday Lunch in the suburbs. Mon dieu. I generally love meeting the parents. In The States. Not to toot my own horn but parents love me. In The States. They think I'm cute, ambitious and interesting. In The States. Notice how I keep saying in The States? Because none of those are the case here. Here, I have to brush up on my vousand answer serious 'trick' questions on why I'm in France (Which decodes to: Are you going to move somewhere else once you get bored here?), don't my parents miss me (Are you a motherless orphan who has no family values?), what's my legal status (Are you using our son for a visa?) and for light and 'fun' conversation what do you think of the Obama administration? Yay, meeting the French parents. On y va?
I've met the French parents several times and this is generally how it goes so I wasn't wrong to be a little nervous. My mom knew that I was heading out for Sunday lunch so from New York, she brought me over a reserve bottle of my favorite California whiteLa Crema to offer the parents. That takes care of the motherless child problem.
Meeting the friends last week went really well. I got stellar reviews and I absolutely adored them in return. It was obvious that Sébastien talks about me quite a bit because they didn't interrogate me instead they asked follow up questions to what Sébastien had already filled them in on. They didn't pretend that they knew nothing about me like Monsieur Flâneur's snotty and territorial friends (And I was 'the bitch' because I didn't lovethem). Sébastien's friends were concerned about the sublet and wanted to know how my college applications were going. (Yes, something I haven't shared with you - I am looking to go back to school in the spring). And vice versa, I asked them thoughtful questions based on what Sébastien hold told me about them which made everyone comfortable and we had a lovely time eating foie gras stuffed in figs, drinking crémant de bourgogne and capping the night with l'eau de vie. Friends approval. Check! Now, time for the family's approval. Not so easy.
Sunday morning, we boarded on a 10:00am train to Fountainebleu from Gare de Lyon where we nestled into the train, coffee in one hand, dry brioche from Brioche Dorée in the other and my AugustCosmopolitan with Kim Kardashian on the cover tucked under my arm. "She looks like you." Sébastien commented as he looked at the cover of a gorgeous, busty and glowing Kardashatante. "Merci but you're a fucking liar." I said with a giggle. Although, I'd love to believe him, I by no means look like Kim Kardashian. If I did, I would not be writing a blog about getting dumped, I'd be looking at myself in the mirror all day, like Kim. Just as the train was pulling out of the station, two men who cracked open two beers sat across from us who felt that we all wanted to enjoy their traditional Eastern European music that they were blasting out of their smart phone. Sébastien and I looked at each but both assumed that they would turn it off at some point but in fact they made it louder which in turn made their conversation louder. I made eye contact with one of the men and gently gestured to please lower it. My request went ignored. 5 minutes later, Sébastien was getting annoyed too (the music was that awful especially on a Sunday morning) and asked if they could be please turn the music off or put on headphones. They didn't like this. In really rough and broken French he said "What, man?". Sébastien calmly repeated his request noting that it was Sunday morning. "You want me to turn the music off when?" the drunk man responded. "Now? Tout de suite." Sébastien responded, this time a bit sharper as he didn't like that he was being played with. A few passengers nodded in agreement. No one was enjoying their music. Sorry, fellas. "Demung." the drunky mumbled. "Comment?" Sébastien said looking at me with confusion. "Demung." he repeated with a smug smirk. "Excusez-moi mais j'ai pas compris." Sébastien said with sincerity, he truly didn't understand what he was saying and then it hit both of us that he was trying to sayDemain (I have trouble with that word too), tomorrow he said he was going to turn off his shit music tomorrow. Oh, ok Sir. He then continued "Why don't I turn the music off after I throw you out the window and you're little girlfriend can watch." One, the window opens up like two inches and two, shut up. I'm not the girlfriend in the corner who is going to start screaming because you threaten my boyfriend. This isn't 1957. We both said nothing and I had to pinch my leg to stop from laughing at his cheese ball threat. His friend, who I assume was more sober took the phone and turned the music off. "Merci." Sébastien said to less than intoxicated man.
Half way through the ride, the drunken duo moved over and sat in the seats next to us and proceeded to take photos of us with the incriminating smart phone. So if you find photos on the internet of pissed off passengers on the RER, that's us. We moved cars at the next stop to avoid any further confrontation because they had cracked open another beer and their alcohol blood level would surely trump their level of comprehension and logical thinking and frankly, we didn't want to get our asses kicked by these hooligans. Sébastien and I aren't that tough. I know, what a shocker.
We arrived at the station and his mother was already there waiting to pick us up. She was with Sébastien's uncle. Yes! An uncle! Uncles love me no matter where I am. As predicted, Uncle Jean was easy to talk to, hip and funny.
We walked in to his house and were greeted by his immediate family. They were warm and I presented my wine gift to his mother and step-father. Whenever I present the French with a bottle of California wine, they look at is as if a spaceship just landed in their front yard. They examine the bottle, read the label, hold it as if it's a specimen and make comments amongst each other. The mother eventually warmed up to me after I got passed the tough questions during apéro and lunch was a relaxing cultural event. They always are here in France. Did I win her over? Certainly not, she's French but I could tell she liked me as much as she could allow herself to.
Who I did in fact win over was Sébastien's 14 year old brother Pierre. We bonded over how annoying it is to get your braces tightened (I remember those days like it was yesterday...), how fun sleep away camp is and how bacon chips rule. Deep topics.
You haven't truly 'met the parents' until you've met the French parents. They're tougher than most but once you get their approval it was well worth the light hazing. I still miss Madame Flâneur, who I was once terrified of. French mothers just want the best for their sons and ideally would want them to be with a nice French girl just like my family would like me to be with a nice Italian-American boy named Tony. I think I represented myself well, the indicator being that Sébastien was pleased. Now it's Monday and am off to focus on the current bain of my existence; my college application essays.