Super-stopper (albeit unintentionally) show girls!

Guiness would be proud.

Katelyn and I have seen a record breaking high in the admirers of our beauty and our participation in that accepted, standard French greeting called “les bises”. Lets just say its been a barrel of laughs and if I didn’t have a sense of humour, this weekend would have left me permanently scarred.

It seems that standing and simply breathing makes you a poster image to be honked at, and if you add a little walk to the recipe, whistling is the form of acknowledgement. And if you pull out the big guns, the catching of eyes (or in truth, our standard look of confusion, or where-is-that-coming-from face) lands the poor lads with their faces plastered against their car windows waving ridiculously at us. Bewitched, and yet no words have passed between us. I must say, we are powerful – just need to find a pair of shoes (for a reasonable price) to contain this ability.

Have I suddenly changed in looks? Have I gained weight and what I thought were looser fitting jeans suddenly more clingy in all the “right/wrong” (whatever perspective you would like to take, insert either word please) places? Or are the boys over here just weirder and way more erotically charged? Or possibly, is it that spring has arrived in full bloom and with it, the birds and the bees too take root?

Whatever the reason I am a babe and so is Katelyn.

Perhaps this is why all sorts of French people flock to us in order to greet us cheek to cheek…or quite often, their lips to my cheek, and my cheek to their cheek. At least I find myself bending in awkward ways just to make sure that I only touch their cheek (because heaven forbid that I – well I can’t even think about that) and that I don’t toople over into their lap or arms. They may kiss strangers but I certainly don’t! And whatever happened to the air kisses of yesteryear?
Personal Anecdote: Entering church yesterday, we walk into a group of youth. David (a.k.a. freaky, scary boy that is awkward to talk to) is approaching me and the only escape would be to put on a magic cape and pull a disappearing act. RRRRRRRRUUUUUUUUUUNNNNNNNNNN I think to myself! Too late, he comes up and bisous, bisous’ me, because after all we are “brother and sister in Christ” (I fail to mention I don’t even kiss my biological brother).
The worst part is, that bises moment, set the tone for the rest of the day. Two minutes later again by the Pastor. At the end of service, by the friendly lady’s husband whom I have never talked to. At my apartment by a man wearing too much cologne. By a man that wants to take me to a nudist beach for my birthday (I am not kidding about this last one). And look at the pattern…all men!

And despite this constant flow personal space invasion and attention from these admirateurs, the neighbours still think that we need to find a French guy. Apparently it would be a travesty for us to leave Perpignan without having had a ‘real’ gentleman caller because of our (and I quote) “intelligence and beauty”. My question is, however, are there even gentlemen in France? Perhaps I will meet this aforementioned guy at the birthday party they are throwing for Katelyn and me with the boy-toys invited not only as our honoured guests, but presents.

Megs, I think you’re right about that ring…