Quickly I scanned the sea of mustachioed faces — some average, some dogs-wouldn’t-piss-on-me-if-I-was-a-tree ugly — that lined the exit from DeGaulle Airport. I didn’t bother to look at the signs they held beneath their chins. From the charming chauffeur who initiated my love of Frenchmen to the sweet-talker who escorted us from Nice to Monte Carlo, my daughter had a talent for selecting only the most deliciously tempting examples of Gallic masculinity to escort us through the country. Surely, surely she would not have failed me on this return to my favorite city.
As I neared the end of the line — and prepared for my disappointment — the clouds parted and sunbeams cascaded over this incredible smile. And I knew he was ours.
Okay, but where was his pere — why was this child out driving without his father?
Ladies, I realize I promised some of you a scenic tour of Parisian manhood, but I must apologize. I don’t seem to be able to find any. Even at my favorite hunting grounds — Cafe Ruc — there was nothing on the floor over thirty. It seems all the swarthy, salt-and-pepper-haired hunks I so looked forward to giving you the thrill of ogling vicariously have been replaced by their Stepford sons — skinny little metrosexual things who apparently spent more time at the spa than at their mothers’ tables.
While I’m enjoying the much-needed relaxation, the incredible food and the always wonderful company of my daughters, I’m anxious to get home to my grey-maned (well, those who still have hair), pillow-paunched, scotch-swilling poker buddies who hunt, fish and rest their unpedicured testosterone-oozing toes beneath my kitchen table.
Men who know — as I do — they’re real men.
God, I hope I remembered to pack my ruby slippers…