It’s that time of year again, when those naughty Europeans prowl in the Park, trying their darndest to get laid before going home.
How do I know they’re not locals? Because they look at you as if you’re an exotic zoo animal, like a lynx, or a zebra.
They troll the runner’s track and road on a reconnaissance mission for that quick, casual canoodle.
I suppose one in their twilight years should be flattered, like this morning when I was ogled by a fella 35 at the most, smiling like he was just hit over the head.
After looking behind me making sure to be the actual recipient of his simpering smiles, realized, it had to be me, there was no one else around at 6:00 A.M..
I’ll admit, he was quite cute with wavy d’Artagnan hair, and like any well-equipped Musketeer, had a sword, just not one you could, how you say…en guarde…right away.
Mademoiselle indeed. Well, that’s certainly one way to break the ice.
“I am Fitz from Dijon.”
“Dijon did you say…any relation to the mustard?”
do you leeve’ how you say…cloose by?”
“You mean like in a tree? No. And excuse me, but I have a schedule to keep.”
“Nu Nu…Weet, Mademoiselle...s’il vous plait, which way, how you say…Boat House?”
“We say, Boat House.”
Turns out my frisky Musketeer just needed directions to the nearest mens room.
Alright, alright…but who knows, if I hadn’t gone on my merry way, what might have happened once he unsheathed that sword.
Oh mon Dieu!