Sébastien loves the surprise date. He texted me with the proposal of a secret date advising me to wear flats because we would be outdoors. With full confidence I accepted because the last surprise date we went on was a success where I didn't end up doing something ridiculous like hiking in high heels and had faith that it would be something that we would both enjoy. He showed up at my house at 6:30 pm to pick up his mademoiselle and because he rode his bike over, he was wearing his tight, mustard colored, rolled up bike pants that I sort of hate. Half-joking, I suggested that on our way to dinner to La Candelaria, that we would stop at The Kooples to get him suitable pants for the evening. He kissed my head at my snide comment.
Walking up rue Vieille du Temple and passing the closed Kooples boutique, I couldn't believe what my eyes saw. The same exact pants he was wearing were displayed in the window and modeled on the mannequin rolled up at the ankles. Seriously? "They copied my look! he faux-tested with a pumped fist in the air. "I'm going to sue!"
Going to La Candelaria was my idea because we wanted something casual, easy and (somewhat) quick before launching into our outdoor "surprise date" that he had planned. To be frank, this isn't one of my favorite places in Paris. Yes, I know, I know it's all of the Paris bloggers' darling hotspot but I just have never been terribly impressed with the food. Living in Southern California for 5 years and my father being half Mexican makes me a drop picky with my tacos. In Candelaria's defense, they serve Mexican food by way of Spain giving the cuisine a different flavor which is probably what's throwing me off. And for this ladies and gentlemen, is why I'm not a food critic, I tend to always miss the point. They also get major kitch points because there is no place like it in Paris and for the most part we both enjoyed our hard shell beef tacos at the counter that we washed down with 'international' Dos Equis beers that boasted international prices. Being early, 7pm which is like sunrise by Parisian dining standards, we weren't stuffed in there like my ass in my grandmother's vintage skirts therefor we were able to enjoy our feast in peace and quickly order seconds as we all know having just one taco is bullshit.
After dinner, we took a leisurely walk through the Marais and across the bridge to rive gauche on our way to secret date time. He took me to The Seine along the 5th arrondisement where he pulled out a bottle of Bordeaux to enjoy before we challenged ourselves with Brazilian dancing on the water. Trop mignon! Forro en Seine organizes community dancing every weekend along the water where it's a mixed bag of dance levels. Séb and I were certainly on the lower end of the talent spectrum, but we were there to have fun which the Forro en Seine team encouraged; "A child can do it! Allez!" to quote one of the enthusiastic staff members. At one point, Séb and I switched partners where I was teamed up with I swear, the French Charlie Sheen. He looked exactly like him, the resemblance was uncanny. 'Charlie' was a dance pro and had me flailing around the cobblestone dance floor like his little rag doll. I was terrified of falling into the non-guarded river's edge and having my head sliced off by the many tourist cruises going by. Morbid, yes but completely possible.
Once 'Charlie' had found a more appropriate dance partner and my life wasn't an inch away from the edge of a major river, I gratefully found my way back to dancing with Séb, someone equally as inept as me. Dancing on a cool September night made me feel like a star in a movie shot in Europe. The music, the dancing, the aforementioned boats that made the river sparkle as they sailed by and being surrounded by jovial Europeans who were drinking wine, laughing and enjoying life. This is why I came to Paris in the first place and for the first time in a long time, I was one of those people again. Moments like these are few and far between, but when they happen, it's well worth the heartache that comes with being a foreigner trying to sort through a fucked up deck of cards that she was dealt with.
Bon Dimanche, tout le monde.