Frogs, femes, ‘creeping gentrification’ and the emasculation of America.

Part 1: 

Have I ever shared the fact that I have a strong and rather intense aversion to the French? Likely not, but it’s probably as ‘politically correct’ a dislike as any that progressive America has been so hastily and enthusiastically condemning these days.

Let me correct that broad and sweeping statement slightly by saying that I specifically and especially dislike French men. The fact that I am derived from German/Irish (Saxon/Celtish) notwithstanding, or the fact that I have in past participated in 2WK Luftwaffe ‘historical reenactment (a link with my Germanic ancestors, who hail from Krain…now known as Slovenia), I have never yet in all my world travels met a Frenchman I took an inherent liking to.

French women, on the other hand? In many ways as characteristically frustrating as their Gallic opposite gender but far more appealing due to their uniquely sensual nature and general savoire fare. Double that for female French intellectuals in most cases (although some of the more extreme examples can certainly be first-class ‘ball-busters’); I can immediately think of one such vendetta-prone femme…Simone deBovier, although how she could possibly find unkempt, hygienically deficit and slovenly Jean Paul Sarte compatible as a ‘lover’ is way beyond my reasoning (since in terms of personal habits he was a complete and utter pig). For the most part and in marked contrast, however, I have typically found French women to be refreshingly alluring and possessed of a seemingly natural mix of physical and emotive affects that somehow reaches out to stimulate my interest more than just superficially.

One such French woman I met in Saudi Arabia, while working there on medical projects in the 80s and 90s. She was by day an Aerospatiale helicopter mechanic…seemingly a somewhat strange profession for a young woman back then…but she was, I have been told, extremely good at keeping temperamental French helicopters in the air; an ‘ace’ mechanic, as it were, and highly regarded by her colleagues at the Aerospatiale compound.

She was also an absolutely gorgeous brunette, probably at least half-chameleon in nature, since after hours she would emerge from under all the day’s accumulation of Aeroshell-6 aircraft grease and MIL-H-5606A hydraulic fluid as a singularly and extraordinarily attractive woman. I first encountered her at a dinner/dance soiree given by the French Embassy in Riyadh and was smitten instantly by her dark brunette good looks and KSA tan, stunningly accented by the slinky 'little black dress' she was wearing. To see her thus kitted out for an evening of social mixing, with her strong eyebrows, fine features and slender but statuesque figure, was to be instantly hooked like a fish on a line! Understandable then that I wasted no time prevailing upon some of my embassy friends to fill me in on exactly who this gorgeous damsel was!

‘Celine’ (as we shall call her, coming from coastal Normandy, specifically the La Manche area around Cherbourg) was as you might expect, quite popular with the men and competition for her attentions was usually quite intense. She seemed to always be surrounded by a coterie of current or ex-fighter pilots of all nationalities, I seem to recall, but had a formidable ability to separate out the typical fighter jock bullshit and zero in on those who had a bit more to offer her ‘upstairs’. That’s where I stood out and consequently we were able to hit it off quite well over the course of several weeks.

But beautiful, bright and formidable Celine was just one example of a number of lovely French women I have encountered all over the world. Another perfectly singular specimen, but one who was, unfortunately also a first-class ball-buster, was beautiful ‘Francine’ from the Quebec area near Montreal. Francine fulfilled all my personal criteria for exotic allure with her lithe, physically well-toned body, honey-brown hair and finely molded features and she was also no dummy in the smarts department, but regrettably she was a black-belt, nut-buster first-class who was also a bit selfish with her assets and made no pretense about brusquely rejecting those whom she didn’t find suitable. I was apparently one of those in her eyes, since she quickly shot me down most unmercifully and without any subtlety at all.

She was in the habit of visiting the compound fitness facility I frequented, back in Riyadh, and each day I had to try hard to restrain my obvious interest as I watched her go through her set of toning exercises, clad typically only in a sportsbra and tights. If that seems inordinately sexist, remember, this was Saudi Arabia, where most men don’t have half the opportunities to liaise with the fairer sex that they do in the west.

After about a month of gazing at her fine features obliquely in this fashion, I finally summoned up my reserves of cool detachment and put them to bed (Freudian slip, perhaps?), then went over to her and introduced myself, asking her if she cared to visit the embassy to listen to a chamber quartet that had flown in from the continent earlier in the day. Simple, I thought! After all, who could possibly resist an evening of light socializing in the stinking desert, accented by the chance to take in a dose of high-class ‘culcha’ in the bargain?

How WRONG I was! Beautiful Francine (my mates and I had dubbed her ‘Obscene Francine’ after watching her daily slither through her exercise routines) was not just a first-class frosty bitch, but a frosty first-class bitch from snooty, capricious French-speaking Canada and her quick rejection was like a saber slash across the face: “Non! I hate classical music!” The palpable scorn of that response left me feeling like a Ukainian soldier sent into the ruins of Chernoble to guage the extent of the reactor meltdown damage done there.

OK, score one for the bitches of the world and take a point away from those like me, who are a mix of otherwise acceptable aesthetic appreciations, commendable cultural proclivities and fitness concerns. At any rate, ‘Obscene Francine’ thoroughly trounced on my feelings with that single lightning strike and I thereafter retreated to the safety of my power squats and weight presses to lick the wounds to my ego. Another French woman I met while spending a last week in Munich was an altogether different proposition.

I have written about her before in my other writings, but suffice it to say (in recapitulating the story) that she was a student of classical ballet who was living with a man on a yacht off the French Riviera (so she had said). Deciding to take a summer course in le danse at the Ludwig-Maximilians Universitat München, she had hopped a train up from the coast and was walking about the Schwabbing student sector of the city, taking in the sights much like I was (I had driven my rented Benz up from Heidelberg and had earlier arranged for a room for myself at the Vierjahreszeiten…the Four Seasons, a 5-star, world-class luxury hotel...dropped off my luggage and headed out for a leisurely tour of the old part of the city, late in the afternoon.

As the story unfolds, I was somewhere in the vicinity of the lovely old Frauenkirche and rounded the corner to almost collide with her. Quickly excusing my clumsiness, I wished her a good day and walked away. I hadn’t spent more than 20 minutes, caught up in all the Gothic beauty of Old München, when I rounded another corner and…almost ran into her again! It was certainly a coincidence, I reflected, but she continued on her way after we exchanged the usual formal pleasantries, both of us speaking a foreign language (German) that was not native to either of us. Thinking she was German, I hadn’t a clue as to her real nationality…all I knew for sure was that she was definitely HOT stuff (real ‘Code Three’ quality; all my lights were flashing and alarm bells were clanging, LoL!).

I was still bemused by this ‘chance encounter by collision’ when it happened a third time, this time out in the vicinity of the old Burgerbrauhaus (in which Hitler had tried to incite his first socialist uprising, back in the 30s), that had later ultimately been destroyed and demolished as an unwanted relic of the Hitlerian Regime. This time, I took note of my intuitive feeling that somehow, someone up there was trying to tell me something! I then quickly wasted no time in introducing myself to this lovely specimen of female comeliness who I had nearly flattened not just once, but THREE times!

Her name, it turned out, was Danielle and she still had her medium-sized backpack on her back, having arrived just that morning on the Bundesbahn milk-run from down south. It was quite challenging to carry out a dialogue with her in my rudimentary Deutschesprache, since neither of us spoke perfect German. My high-school student German studies were long behind me, but it seemed to be adequate enough, and I suggested we take in the sights together. Since I had booked a suit at the Vierjahreszeiten, it seemed natural, after a bit, to ask her where she was staying and was surprised when she admitted that she hadn’t yet secured any accommodations. At that point I didn’t waste any more time and suggested that since I had an extra queen-sized bed in my large room, why not avail it? Seemed innocent enough to me, given that Europeans are far more practical about such matters than the average Yank.

It was agreed then, and we began a round of some student eateries and drinking spots where I had a few of those lovely Munchen beers I am so fond of (Spatenbrau, Augustinerbrau and so forth). Interestingly, I think, I was wearing what I call my ‘lucky flight jacket’ (a favorite old US Navy G-8 ‘WEP’ jacket that has spent a lot of time in the air), which I think gave me a sort of ‘interesting’ cachet. It had also gained me a LOT of unwelcome attention from young German leftists (I had several times, in my travels through Germany, been mistaken by Germans as a US serviceman on leave), since this was the height of the mid-80s Pershing SRBM tactical nuke crisis, but in this case it helped me convey a strong affect of ‘the Right Stuff’. And although I was fudging things considerably, I assured her in my schoolboy German, that I was an American ‘Lehrer Piloten’ (or training instructor pilot), on holiday from work in Saudi Arabia. She seemed to buy that, so amply fortified by the strong Munchner beer as I was, we continued to have a most lovely evening in each other’s company.

Finally, it was late and so we returned to my room at the hotel. Although my offer had been innocent enough at the onset, it was hard to resist Danielle’s vital, earthy attractiveness…besides I have always had a secret coital fantasy about ballet dancers…and we ended up staying in the same bed. Delicacy forbids a more ‘in-depth’ (no pun intended, but it’s certainly a good one in this context) description of what ensued that night, but suffice it to say she taught me several Tantric chapters in the Kama Sutra that I never even knew existed!

The next morning, I took her to the tram terminal prior to taking my departure for Frankfurt and a flight back to Riyadh, with the idea of simply dropping her off there. DO NOT ask me why, but in the fuzzy aftermath euphoria of our night together and given my natural ‘Boy Scout’ mentality, I offered her a hundred Mark note after she got out of the Benz. WRONG MOVE! I had intended it purely as a token to help her defray expenses as her stay continued, during her several week course at the University…not thinking of how it might be perceived, of course!

What transpired next was right out of a Humphrey Bogart movie as she dropped her backpack on the sidewalk, wordlessly (but with a stony expression of indignance on her face) strode over to me, and slapped me on the cheek! Yow! That was one highly pissed-off young woman! Somehow the vicarious 'romance' of the situation failed to register on me, of course, since my cheek burned like it had been hit by a laser-guided smart bomb! [French women don't pull their punches in the heigh of passion, apparently!]

Immediately grasping what a colossal gaffe I had just committed, I was tongue-tied and at a total loss for an explanation of my innocent intent. I just smiled stupidly as any American/French good-will sizzled and burned to a crisp at my feet! I must have set back the entire efforts of the American Foreign Service light-years in that show of youthful, insensitive naivete! Poor Danielle! To this day, I still remember that look of abject disbelief on her face just before receiving that well-deserved slap! It was most assuredly NOT one of my finer moments!

The flight back to the Kingdom was relatively uneventful if you discount the rather unpleasant experience of being squeezed between two portly Saudis who each smelled as if they hadn’t showered in months (and probably hadn’t, seeing as how a typical Saudi ‘shower’ consists of pouring a pint of highly fragrant women’s cologne over their heads to ‘power-scrub’ the powerful body odor…GAAK!).

But all of the foregoing is a digression, since my main point is that while I have a very tender spot within me for French women (and an equally keen appreciation of French wines, breads and cheeses), I have never, ever, in any manner, shape or form had the slightest similar regard for the typical Frenchman.

My experience with Frenchmen had amply reinforced the fact that the average French male is by nature arrogant, conceited, supercilious, vain, chauvinistic, pompous, vengeful and given to taking needless extreme offense at what he perceives to be the slightest suggestion of personal criticism, correction and/or insult!

Must be the German part of me that bristles at this characteristic remonstrance displayed by so many French men in daily encounters, but whether this is the case or not, French men continue to put me off even today. An example may be found in a purchase I made from a Frenchman on the internet for some small embroidered emblems, some 5 months ago.

Not only did this chap fail to send the correct items (which I had paid for in advance), he thereafter categorically refused to admit that a mistake had been made when he sent me only one emblem out of six I had purchased (and even then it was the wrong item!).

Subsequently, I tried vainly for several months to even receive a reply from him until I finally enlisted the help of a French friend, who interceded directly, on my behalf, at this guy’s office. Eventually this provoked him to a response, although he insisted that no error had been made on his part. Several months more passed, punctuated by further vain efforts to communicate with him and get him to rectify the situation, until finally my French friend suggested that due to his patent refusal to correct the error, I should simply inform PAYPAL and have them request a full refund from him.

This seemed like both a logical and brilliant remedy, since PAYPAL heavily promotes its willingness to obtain a 'quick' refund, should a transaction fail to be satisfactory, for any purchase made through its auspices.

Well, yes and no. At this point one has to meet a whole gamut of requisite demands by PAYPAL, involving submission of evidence, communications, and personal exchanges, so as to ‘document’ the details before PAYPAL will ‘consider the matter and make a determination’ as to whether a refund is deserved or not! This takes an additional couple of weeks, of course, and by the time they ‘decide’ in your favor, you must return whatever wrong item was sent, back to the seller (in this case a small woven emblem costing about US$4); when the seller receives it and indicates to PAYPAL that it has been received, then and only then will PAYPAL make full restitution. It is now the first of December. The whole wretched SNAFU began back in mid-August, so go figure!

Since the original purchase for 6 emblems was Eu 49.42, and since I was forced to send the single emblem back via Registered International Air Letter (for US$24), I have effectively ‘lost’ almost half of the original purchase cost due to the return. I have no doubts at all that this particular ‘Frog’, who has engineered such a needless and frustrating situation out of what should have been a simple ‘satisfaction guaranteed’ business matter, is sitting back right this moment, smiling vindictively as he contemplates the satisfaction of having ‘shown that stupid American’ a thing or two about how the French sense of ‘honor’ cannot be impugned without serious repercussions!

QED: my existing extreme distaste for the French men I have encountered.

(To be continued, with further misogynistic and politically incorrect commentary, shortly)…