Le French

It starts at the airport, more precisely at the boarding gate for the evening flight to Paris.
Men suddenly do look better. And they look at you, they even look into you eyes.
First I was irritated. Is there something on my face, maybe salad from the sandwich I had before at the good old Marché at Schönefeld? Then the very good looking, very young and very French guys smiled at me. I felt beautiful. I’ve been away for too long. Not that French men are better than Germans, no, absolutely not. They are a disaster in relationships. Über-dramatic and truly pathetic in their need for possession. I know what I’m talking about, I’ve been through that. A relationship with a French is like being in a little nutshell in very stormy sea. It is always arduous, even in good times. A relationship with a German compared to it is a trip on a cruise ship with a five star restaurant on board in very calm sea. “Angenehm” as Georg Diez would call it.
But French men just know how to make you feel beautiful, how to make you feel a woman.
Paris, here I am.