That tall, skinny guy… our new guest???

We woke up this morning with a mission: clean, and buy booze. We have a surprising visitor coming tonight… we think.

Yesterday we enjoyed our last beach day at L’Esquinade. My family thanked Yannick for a great week of bringing us mats and drinks, they said goodbye to Manuel, they enjoyed the Mediterranean for the last time until who-knows-when. During lunch, we wanted to properly thank our waiter, the tall skinny guy, for tolerating us all week…

But before I write what happened next, allow me to explain some background. When I first began frequenting L’Esquinade, this man hated me – or at least he made me feel like that. He never would bother to say hello or ça va, even when I did. Whenever we did speak, he would speak only French, even though he knew I spoke English and I struggled with French. As I became friendlier with Yannick, he grew even quieter, often even rude. Who knows why. I think I’m a pretty nice girl… but that’s just me ; )

The only time he was reasonable – and even then he was a bit cold – was when I ran into him once scooter shopping. I made him give me kisses like the French do and had a conversation with him in strained French. As far as I knew, he spoke no English.

And then we ate at L’Esquinade. Turns out he speaks fluent English and has had no problem chit-chatting with my family all week.

So today, our last day, my brother asked if he could buy this man a drink. He told us that Americans don’t know how to drink and walked off to another table.

Next time around, I asked him if had any nights off – and he said only Mondays. Alex then told him that he was leaving Monday morning, and everyone was slightly disappointed we couldn’t prove our alcholicness, but we didn’t think too much about it as our waiter walked off again.

Not five minutes later he returned. “Well if you’d like, I can have drinks Sunday night at midnight or one,” he informed us in his thick, French accent.

“Yea, defiantly!” Alex said. “Where?”

“Well, your house, of course.”


Umm, ok… Nothing like an unexpected guest with an attitude! Trying to make things a bit less odd, my brother thought to introduce himself. “Well,” he said, extending his hand, “I’m Alex.”

“Really?” our waiter responded, not bothering to take his hand. “I’m French.”
And he disappeared into the mass of tables.

“He certainly is fresh,” my father announced.

I smiled tightly. “Better than being stale…”


I decided to give our waiter my number just in case he got lost trying to find our house… or changed his mind. In an attempt to learn his name, I wrote my name down on a piece of paper and said, “This is me.”

“No,” he said, taking the pen from my fingers. I was shocked. I know my own name. So I stared intently at what he was scribbling down, and smiled wickedly once I deciphered his writing. “Actually, this is ‘me,’” he corrected.

Sure enough, on the slip of paper, the word “me” was carefully written.

Wiseass.

So we are expecting the company of a scrawny man we don’t know, who doesn’t really like me, who’s funny as hell and more patient than most. I wonder if he’ll actually show…


On another note, I love my scooter. Remember when you were younger and you first got your driver’s license? That first taste of independence, total freedom, made you crazy. You’d kill for any excuse to take the care. Hell, you’d go out for joy rides just because you could. That’s me. Randomly I’ll just pick up my helmet and announce I’m gonna go scoot for a while and – vrrrooooommm – off on my own adventure, lost in my own mind, enjoying something new and exciting. I loved driving in the States; my little red stick-shift convertible was my absolute favorite possession. Here? My scoot’s become my new baby after only two days. It’s the embodiment of youth and freedom and here, I feel both ridiculously young and eternally free. I’m living my dream and the scooter’s going to be how I get around while here.

Not that I’m necessarily very good at it. I’ve improved; I can keep up with traffic and take most corners with confidence now. But today, for example, as I was pulling into the parking lot on the port in St. Tropez (just so I could stay with my family – on a scooter you can park anywhere you wish) I got stock behind one of the bars and forced the guy behind me to take two tickets… oops?