In Which Our Author Charms a Local

I got a phone number today. In the bus. From a guy who was about 45, wearing a Cosby sweater and blowing smoke in my face.

There were a couple of factors at work here, most notably, that he is apparently attracted to Ice Queens, because I said and did absolutely nothing to encourage him. I gave him a made-up name (and a second made-up name when he forgot that first one), and didn't say anything to him beyond "Oh, really?" in the blandest tone I could muster.

Here's the thing: it's sort of accepted practice that if someone isn't harassing you, you play nice until you can get rid of them. (One time I was in a wildly crowded metro train and everyone was smashed up against each other, and a random skeever with his hand in his pocket turned his fingers so he was basically feeling my crotch during the entire train ride. I didn't freak out, but when we got off the train I told my French friend what happened, and she said, I swear, "Yeah, that happens, but it doesn't hurt so it's no big deal.")

Anyway, back to Bus Guy. I put on the Ultra Freeze and refused to answer any of his questions, and let's just say he's not the brightest bulb in the chandelier, because at one point he commented that he'd never seen me around town before, and was I from the city? No, I said shortly, I was from very far away. And at first he thought "Very Far Away" was a town he wasn't familiar with, so finally I just said, "It's near Tours."

He finally got off the bus and I continued to my destination in peace. I relay this story for all of you who harbor fantasies about French men. You just keep that dream alive while I cope with the reality, how about that?