My French lover is what I like to call dark, smooth and compelling. We started seeing each other some time ago but were a bit off and on for a while. Since he was not from America, I needed time to decide if I wanted to pursue a relationship with him--you never know if you can trust those foreigners. But there was something about the way he seemed to linger that I found irresistible and I loved the traces of him on my hair, face and hands, hours after we’d part. Sometimes I felt like people were staring because of the way he attached himself to my hips but I didn’t care, I was happy.
My French lover goes by the name of Nutella.
This past summer my feelings elevated from a small crush to a slight obsession, when it seemed a popular craze for almost every household to support Nutella as a healthy breakfast alternative on a piece of toast. Drink it with a glass of orange juice and call yourself well-balanced--or at least what the label reads. I would sit on kitchen counters with an open container and a spoon, practically going shot for shot with toddlers. What better way to prepare myself for a year in France, I thought, didn’t it originate there or something? As we’ve gotten to know each other better I’ve realized, he has Italian roots.
Discovering the way Nutella and a fresh baguette coexist was a bit like the way I felt the first time I went skydiving-- addicted and hungry for more. A delicious combination leaving me capaciously satisfied for the length of time it takes me to walk up the stairs and decide I do indeed need another piece. My head over heels feelings caused me to quickly devour my first jar. The words of my mother rang in my ears, “Christina, don’t throw yourself at him.” I considered putting brown construction paper on the inside, hoping to camouflage it’s empty content but settled for shoving the jar in a back corner of the kitchen cabinets and me and my lover took a break.
Brokenhearted as I was, I would pine for my Nutella fix. Nighttime was the hardest, but I thought it best I keep my distance for a few weeks and play a little hard to get. One day, I could stand it no longer and had to go buy another jar at the store. Much like Veruca Salt in Willy Wonka, ripping back the golden wrapping, I dunked my finger, wanting a taste now! Holding the jar and the steering wheel in one hand; The other, partially covered in Nutella, partially driving stick shift. In horror of my monstrous stage five clinger behavior, I momentarily considered running the red light so the camera installed for driving tickets could capture me in my weakest moment. My vulnerability proved my true feelings for him and things started going quite well between us.
He took me on the most romantic and memorable dates of my life one rainy afternoon in the fall. Him, wrapped in a crepe; My hands warmed by his touch. We stood at Trocodero, in awe of the Eiffel Tower and overwhelmed by the beauty of the city before us. We got lost in the crowd and like in a scene from a movie, he expressed his deepest feelings for me. And though he was a bit gooey, I found myself weak in the knees. Sometimes the best things are a bit messy, I reminded myself.
We decided to start seeing each other exclusively and every day I found myself counting down the minutes till he joined me for tea around 4 o’clock. That was when we got to know each other the best and I found myself stealing away to the kitchen for the rest of the evening to share our moments alone in the corner. Smitten, I couldn’t get over how much I adored him--both the sweet and salty sides of him.What is it about young love that seems so, insatiable?
But after a while Nutella became stale. He was too comfortable, and becoming kind of bland. I began to wonder if this was really what I wanted out of this year in Paris. Hadn’t I moved here to become a healthy, cultured, independent young woman? Was I settling for the first taste of anything that came my way?
My fairytale romance turned into a nightmare during Paris Fashion Week. Over breakfast that morning, Nutella and I had a disastrous fight as I expressed I thought we were spending too much time together. Still wearing the consequences, we stumbled across a few fashion shows at the Grand Palais. I tried my best to hide the huge brown blob that had found a home on the front of my white shirt but Nutella was literally all over me. In the midst of models, designers, photographers and the likes, I was miserable. And it was the first time I was embarrassed to be associated with Nutella. Of course I blame him for not being photographed for any sartorial sites that day.
One afternoon, debating on how I was going to break up with Nutella, stalking him on the internet all the while, I found I’d been played a fool. Apparently I was not the only one who admired Nutella the way I had. A simple google search showed me the things no girl wants to know about their so-called lover. And suddenly I realized I had found my easy way out. We could make it casual since that was clearly the way he viewed our relationship.
So I adapted the French outlook on dating and started seeing many suitors-- pain au chocolat, milka and bueno bars, chocolat chaud, to name a few. I now understand I’m far too young to settle down and am enjoying broadening my palate.
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