Compared to America, the French are very pro-PDA. Nobody thinks twice if a couple is canoodling on the metro, or exchanges a quick kiss on the lips for a greeting.
I am a supporter of PDA. I like to partake in cuddling and even small kisses in front of friends or strangers on the street.
That said, I was forced to observe a little bit too much PDA the other day on the metro. This was one of those metro rides where the car is packed and you are sort of stuck looking in a certain direction.
I had a couple right in front of me, and it started out all right. They were holding hands, putting their arms around each other, all in all pretty tame.
Until, with horror, I saw this young man lean forward towards his girlfriend’s face, mouth open, going for a kiss, tongue first.
Then both tongues were out, touching, right in front of my face.
And I thought to myself, “man, the French are a little too okay with PDA.”
Showing posts with label French Dating. Show all posts
Showing posts with label French Dating. Show all posts
May 30, 2015
July 6, 2013
Les Couverts
Meeting the parents of a significant other is always stressful, but I was adding in cultural differences, language barriers, a weeklong stay, and being a vegetarian in a very meat-based culture.
Trying to make a good impression during one of the first dinners with the parents, monsieur pommettes brought up a culture factoid I had previously shared with him.
“In America, they hold their forks and knives differently, and use their knives a lot less!” my French boyfriend told his parents.
I immediately panicked.
While true that in America we switch the fork holding hand before eating and in France they tend not to, and the French certainly use their knives much more like a tool than in the good ol’ States, I was fearful of what sort of image that statement would evoke.
Would they think all Americans are knife-less barbarians that only eat with their hands?
His mother’s instant reply was, “Well, she certainly uses her knife better than you do.”
I secretly preened. Having spent 3 years observing and mimicking French table manors in a never-ending effort to be more French, I couldn’t be happier my efforts were paying off. Nevertheless, M.P. did have it right – table manors are not the same on our two continents.
“Merci, but I learned how to do this while living in France,” I explained. I then told them about the differences between American and Continental dining etiquette I’ve observed over the years, all the way down to using bread to soak up sauces, or using a spoon to eat cake.
An illustration of American vs. Continental fork use.
Source: Châine des Rotisseurs
While for the most part I now use continental style (i.e. I don’t switch my fork hand after cutting), every now and then I notice that I’ve made the switch without meaning to. My American dining etiquette remains a part of me, especially since I still prefer to eat my dessert with a fork.
Trying to make a good impression during one of the first dinners with the parents, monsieur pommettes brought up a culture factoid I had previously shared with him.
“In America, they hold their forks and knives differently, and use their knives a lot less!” my French boyfriend told his parents.
I immediately panicked.
While true that in America we switch the fork holding hand before eating and in France they tend not to, and the French certainly use their knives much more like a tool than in the good ol’ States, I was fearful of what sort of image that statement would evoke.
Would they think all Americans are knife-less barbarians that only eat with their hands?
His mother’s instant reply was, “Well, she certainly uses her knife better than you do.”
I secretly preened. Having spent 3 years observing and mimicking French table manors in a never-ending effort to be more French, I couldn’t be happier my efforts were paying off. Nevertheless, M.P. did have it right – table manors are not the same on our two continents.
“Merci, but I learned how to do this while living in France,” I explained. I then told them about the differences between American and Continental dining etiquette I’ve observed over the years, all the way down to using bread to soak up sauces, or using a spoon to eat cake.
An illustration of American vs. Continental fork use.
Source: Châine des Rotisseurs
While for the most part I now use continental style (i.e. I don’t switch my fork hand after cutting), every now and then I notice that I’ve made the switch without meaning to. My American dining etiquette remains a part of me, especially since I still prefer to eat my dessert with a fork.
December 13, 2011
Maroilles
My introduction to the cheese the North is famous for, Maroilles, was at the very beginning of my relationship with FBF. Because he’s French, I met pretty much his entire family (mom, sister, sister’s boyfriend, and aunt) within two weeks of meeting him.
It was a big family dinner, and as such I was served an appero (cocktail), an entré (appetizer), a plat (main dish), fromage (cheese), and then a dessert.
Wanting to impress, I made sure to taste everything that was served (as long as it was vegetarian).
When it came time to the cheese course, La Soeur asked me, “as-tu déjà gouté du maroilles?” (Have you already tried maroilles?)
I had not. After admitting to not having heard of it before, she raced off to the kitchen to find one of the smelliest cheeses I have still ever smelt. The rest of the family refused to try it, but hoping to make a good impression, I cut off a small slice.
I felt very much as Kad Merad’s character in Bienvenue Chez Les Ch’tis does after his first taste of the stuff when he says, “oh c’est aussi fort une fois que c’est dans l’interior?” (Oh, it’s still this strong once in the mouth?)
It was terrible. I said I didn’t like it more with my facial expression than with my words, and everybody had a good laugh. As it turned out, there was a reason no one in the family wanted a slice of the stuff.
What they had neglected to tell me is that to really enjoy maroilles, you’re supposed to cook it first. Melted maroilles is super delicious and tastes completely different from fresh-from-the-refrigerator maroilles.
I'm pretty sure La Soeur took advantage of my lack of Nordist knowledge to get me to eat cold maroilles in order to see how I took a joke. I think I took it pretty well.
A tarte au maroilles, complete with frites and a salad.
This one's from Les Compagnons de la Grappe, and it was heavenly.
I haven't let eating cold maroilles ruin this delicious cheese for me forever. I’ve now had many tartes au maroilles (a regional specialty of melted maroilles, pastry, and various other ingredients such as milk, eggs, cream, etc) with each one being a delight for my taste buds.
It was a big family dinner, and as such I was served an appero (cocktail), an entré (appetizer), a plat (main dish), fromage (cheese), and then a dessert.
Wanting to impress, I made sure to taste everything that was served (as long as it was vegetarian).
When it came time to the cheese course, La Soeur asked me, “as-tu déjà gouté du maroilles?” (Have you already tried maroilles?)
I had not. After admitting to not having heard of it before, she raced off to the kitchen to find one of the smelliest cheeses I have still ever smelt. The rest of the family refused to try it, but hoping to make a good impression, I cut off a small slice.
I felt very much as Kad Merad’s character in Bienvenue Chez Les Ch’tis does after his first taste of the stuff when he says, “oh c’est aussi fort une fois que c’est dans l’interior?” (Oh, it’s still this strong once in the mouth?)
It was terrible. I said I didn’t like it more with my facial expression than with my words, and everybody had a good laugh. As it turned out, there was a reason no one in the family wanted a slice of the stuff.
What they had neglected to tell me is that to really enjoy maroilles, you’re supposed to cook it first. Melted maroilles is super delicious and tastes completely different from fresh-from-the-refrigerator maroilles.
I'm pretty sure La Soeur took advantage of my lack of Nordist knowledge to get me to eat cold maroilles in order to see how I took a joke. I think I took it pretty well.
A tarte au maroilles, complete with frites and a salad.
This one's from Les Compagnons de la Grappe, and it was heavenly.
I haven't let eating cold maroilles ruin this delicious cheese for me forever. I’ve now had many tartes au maroilles (a regional specialty of melted maroilles, pastry, and various other ingredients such as milk, eggs, cream, etc) with each one being a delight for my taste buds.
March 31, 2011
Une Histoire d'Amour: How I Met FBF
Last year (2009) I was invited to a New Year’s Eve party by one of my French friends, Quentin. He told me it was an 80s themed party, we could sleep at the house, and he’d be by to pick me up around 21h.
As it was winter and below freezing at night, I wore a giant jacket, a scarf, and gloves. I walked out of my apartment and directly into the back seat of the car, as there was already an occupant in the passenger seat.
I entered the car, said “bonjour,” and was immediately presented with a lightening fast French phrase, delivered by the unknown passenger.
I had spent the holidays up until the day before with my family, speaking nothing but English. My French was a little rusty, and I was unprepared for this sudden attack of a foreign language. “Pardon?” I asked.
“C’est où, ton costume?” he repeated. This time, I understood that he was asking me where my 80s costume was.
I was now confronted with a new problem: I couldn’t remember how to say “under” in French! I wanted to say “under my jacket,” but was coming up with a complete blank.
“Uuuhhh…..” I stalled, trying to come up with my French phrase.
The passenger had no patience for me. He immediately turned towards Quentin and asked, “Elle parle français où quoi?” with a tone of disdain. (Does she speak French or what?)
“Oui… je parle un peu français…” (Yes… I speak a little French) I mumbled in reply.
Deciding this guy was an asshole with a stupid wig, a stupid fake mustache, and stupid giant sunglasses, I sat quietly in the back seat not looking forward to the party.
As the night went on, I realized that most everyone at the party was in a couple. Having been dumped the month before, I was not looking forward to watching a bunch of happy couples making out at midnight.
I decided to take matters into my own hands. I was going to try to find someone eligible to kiss when the clock struck twelve.
By this time the wig, sunglasses, and mustache had disappeared from the asshole’s face. I was disappointed to find out that he was exceptionally cute. The rest of the single crowd was definitely not.
I drank a bit, and decided to talk to this guy again. He was nicer round two, so I started flirting with him, trying to get ready for the new year's kiss.
There was one problem: Nobody made out come midnight. Instead, they all went around faire-ing la bise (kissing each other on the cheek), wishing one another “bonne année!” and opening the champagne bottles.
Despite the fact that I didn’t need to find somebody to kiss after all and now I had no more need to talk to him, I continued to talk to him all night. We, and another friend, stayed up until 6am talking about life, the universe, and everything.
He was charming, interesting, funny, and had gorgeous blue eyes.
And, before finally crashing on the couches, he asked for my number.
Proof that things worked out! FBF and I last summer.
As it was winter and below freezing at night, I wore a giant jacket, a scarf, and gloves. I walked out of my apartment and directly into the back seat of the car, as there was already an occupant in the passenger seat.
I entered the car, said “bonjour,” and was immediately presented with a lightening fast French phrase, delivered by the unknown passenger.
I had spent the holidays up until the day before with my family, speaking nothing but English. My French was a little rusty, and I was unprepared for this sudden attack of a foreign language. “Pardon?” I asked.
“C’est où, ton costume?” he repeated. This time, I understood that he was asking me where my 80s costume was.
I was now confronted with a new problem: I couldn’t remember how to say “under” in French! I wanted to say “under my jacket,” but was coming up with a complete blank.
“Uuuhhh…..” I stalled, trying to come up with my French phrase.
The passenger had no patience for me. He immediately turned towards Quentin and asked, “Elle parle français où quoi?” with a tone of disdain. (Does she speak French or what?)
“Oui… je parle un peu français…” (Yes… I speak a little French) I mumbled in reply.
Deciding this guy was an asshole with a stupid wig, a stupid fake mustache, and stupid giant sunglasses, I sat quietly in the back seat not looking forward to the party.
As the night went on, I realized that most everyone at the party was in a couple. Having been dumped the month before, I was not looking forward to watching a bunch of happy couples making out at midnight.
I decided to take matters into my own hands. I was going to try to find someone eligible to kiss when the clock struck twelve.
By this time the wig, sunglasses, and mustache had disappeared from the asshole’s face. I was disappointed to find out that he was exceptionally cute. The rest of the single crowd was definitely not.
I drank a bit, and decided to talk to this guy again. He was nicer round two, so I started flirting with him, trying to get ready for the new year's kiss.
There was one problem: Nobody made out come midnight. Instead, they all went around faire-ing la bise (kissing each other on the cheek), wishing one another “bonne année!” and opening the champagne bottles.
Despite the fact that I didn’t need to find somebody to kiss after all and now I had no more need to talk to him, I continued to talk to him all night. We, and another friend, stayed up until 6am talking about life, the universe, and everything.
He was charming, interesting, funny, and had gorgeous blue eyes.
And, before finally crashing on the couches, he asked for my number.
Proof that things worked out! FBF and I last summer.
January 20, 2011
Les Recontres en Ligne
Two of FBF’s good friends, who last year bought a house together, met online. To me, online dating is reserved for middle-aged divorcées who are looking for a second chance at true love. This view was reinforced when my college roommate tried to set up an account with an online dating site, and not meeting the minimum age requirement, was denied. Apparently, in France online dating is more hip and youth friendly than it’s American counterpart.
Because the French need to have everything be a part of their exclusively French universe, they have their own, French online dating sites. Just like in America, these French dating websites have their own tv pubs (commercials).
The other night while watching Un Diner Presque Parfait (a French TV show where five contestants try to host the best diner party), one such commercial appeared on my tv. Only this time, I recognized some of the “real life” couples from AMERICAN TV ADS for eHarmony.
The French TV Spot.
I recognized the first couple from les états-unis, but upon further research into this, I’ve realized that every single couple advertised for France’s eDarling.fr supposedly met on eHarmony.com!
The poor French are being duped into believing in eDarling based on images of couples that aren’t even French. If word of this got out, I doubt a single French person would join.
Not only should the fact that Americans are being passed of as French people offend the French (notice how none of the actors talk in the French version!), but it should also offend us Americans! If this eHarmony commercial has been sold to France, how can any of us believe that these people are actually “regular eHarmony users” and not paid actors? Are any of these dating sites trustworthy?
Good thing I’ve already found myself a French boyfriend and wont have to resort to online stalking of Frenchmen in order to find “les celebitaires qui vous resembles” (singles who are just like you).
Because the French need to have everything be a part of their exclusively French universe, they have their own, French online dating sites. Just like in America, these French dating websites have their own tv pubs (commercials).
The other night while watching Un Diner Presque Parfait (a French TV show where five contestants try to host the best diner party), one such commercial appeared on my tv. Only this time, I recognized some of the “real life” couples from AMERICAN TV ADS for eHarmony.
The French TV Spot.
I recognized the first couple from les états-unis, but upon further research into this, I’ve realized that every single couple advertised for France’s eDarling.fr supposedly met on eHarmony.com!
The poor French are being duped into believing in eDarling based on images of couples that aren’t even French. If word of this got out, I doubt a single French person would join.
Not only should the fact that Americans are being passed of as French people offend the French (notice how none of the actors talk in the French version!), but it should also offend us Americans! If this eHarmony commercial has been sold to France, how can any of us believe that these people are actually “regular eHarmony users” and not paid actors? Are any of these dating sites trustworthy?
Good thing I’ve already found myself a French boyfriend and wont have to resort to online stalking of Frenchmen in order to find “les celebitaires qui vous resembles” (singles who are just like you).
January 16, 2011
Papouille
Actually dating a French guy has called into question all my preconceived notions of the French being ever so romantic. Sure, sometimes FBF gets up a bit earlier than he’d normally have to in order to drop me off at the tram station, but candlelit dinners? Moonlit strolls? None so far.
Just when I was giving up French romance as a bad joke, this happened.
FBF was touching my feet, tickling me.
“Arrête!!” (Stop!!) I cried.
“Quoi?” (What?) He asked me with faked innocence.
“Ça chatoueiiii” (that tickles!) I exclaimed, a little bit upset.
“Quoi? Je ne voulais que te donner les papouille…” (What? I just wanted to give you ‘papouille’…)
“C’est quoi papouille?” (What does papouille mean?) I asked.
He replied in English. “It’s like sweet nothings, but for touching.”
And just like that, I had found some romance à la française, for clearly the French are romantic if they invented a word specifically to describe sweetnothings touchings.
Just when I was giving up French romance as a bad joke, this happened.
FBF was touching my feet, tickling me.
“Arrête!!” (Stop!!) I cried.
“Quoi?” (What?) He asked me with faked innocence.
“Ça chatoueiiii” (that tickles!) I exclaimed, a little bit upset.
“Quoi? Je ne voulais que te donner les papouille…” (What? I just wanted to give you ‘papouille’…)
“C’est quoi papouille?” (What does papouille mean?) I asked.
He replied in English. “It’s like sweet nothings, but for touching.”
And just like that, I had found some romance à la française, for clearly the French are romantic if they invented a word specifically to describe sweet
January 8, 2011
Cadeaux de Noël
This Christmas was my first Christmas with FBF, and although we spent the actual day apart (me in CA and him in le Nord), I still got a lesson in French dating.
While trying to find a place to live, I was hébergé (housed, home-stay style) chez FBF’s Maman (mommy). As a thank you, I decided to bring her back some Christmas presents from my trip to California.
My gifts were not the thank you I had intended. La Maman, FBF told me, had bought me Christmas presents as well. I was now going to have to do a gift exchange.
Before now, I had never bought nor received a gift of any kind from the parents of a significant other. My gift was simply a thank you present disguised as a Christmas gift. Her present, on the other hand, was simply a Christmas present.
La Maman, as it turned out, was only the beginning. Soon thereafter, FBF informed me that his sister also wanted to buy me a Christmas present.
A few days later, I found out that FBF’s cousin, whom I’ve met a maximum of four times, also bought me a Christmas present.
Last, but not least, and completely unannounced, FBF’s brother and sister-in-law, whom I’ve never met, also bought me Christmas presents.
Having not yet even made the one-year mark with FBF, this whole gift giving with the famille (family) thing made Christmas seem a little bit more serious than I had anticipated. Then I remembered that the French don’t date, they relationship.
I should have seen this coming, what with kissing a guy once making him your boyfriend, and being introduced to family members after only three weeks of dating, naturally I would be receiving Christmas gifts from family members inconnues (unknown).
While trying to find a place to live, I was hébergé (housed, home-stay style) chez FBF’s Maman (mommy). As a thank you, I decided to bring her back some Christmas presents from my trip to California.
My gifts were not the thank you I had intended. La Maman, FBF told me, had bought me Christmas presents as well. I was now going to have to do a gift exchange.
Before now, I had never bought nor received a gift of any kind from the parents of a significant other. My gift was simply a thank you present disguised as a Christmas gift. Her present, on the other hand, was simply a Christmas present.
La Maman, as it turned out, was only the beginning. Soon thereafter, FBF informed me that his sister also wanted to buy me a Christmas present.
A few days later, I found out that FBF’s cousin, whom I’ve met a maximum of four times, also bought me a Christmas present.
Last, but not least, and completely unannounced, FBF’s brother and sister-in-law, whom I’ve never met, also bought me Christmas presents.
Having not yet even made the one-year mark with FBF, this whole gift giving with the famille (family) thing made Christmas seem a little bit more serious than I had anticipated. Then I remembered that the French don’t date, they relationship.
I should have seen this coming, what with kissing a guy once making him your boyfriend, and being introduced to family members after only three weeks of dating, naturally I would be receiving Christmas gifts from family members inconnues (unknown).
December 6, 2010
Les Slows
I am a hopeless romantic. One of the things I want out of a relationship is for my boyfriend to, out of the blue, take me in his arms and slow dance (un slow). I’m realistic about it, too. I’m not expecting him to whip-out the waltz. I’m not expecting him to have a string quartet hidden somewhere in the bushes. All I want is for him to sway in a circle while holding me. And if he wants to hum a little tune, all the better!
Up till now, I’ve never had a problem of making this a reality in my relationships, but FBF hates dancing.
My obsession with dancing is apparently très americaine of me. FBF claims that French girls don’t care if their boyfriends dance with them. At first I found this really hard to believe. Who wouldn’t want their boyfriend to hold them close? Who doesn’t want to recreate movie moments?
I want to danser un slow with Prince Phillip.
Teaching in a lycée (high school) this year has afforded me a new light on the situation. In every class I’ve met so far, there is always one girl who raises her hand, and while giggling, asks me if we really do have a prom in America.
The first time I got asked this question, I laughed. Why wouldn’t it be true? I explained that yes, American movies/TV shows were telling the truth, and that in fact we have three dances a year. I then asked them if they have any dances.
The answer? No. None at all!
It seems that while we are culturally taught to expect dancing from our significant others as early as middle school (I was 12 at my first dance!), the French are never taught to expect that kind of romance.
I’ve been working on FBF’s hatred for dancing. Can it really be so terrible to hold me in his arms and turn in a circle?
He’s been improving on this point. Instead of being like “oh je suis français et je deteste le dancing,” he lets me dance with him without complaint.
It would seem that American boys have the upper hand as far as dancing is concerned. My dad always says, “the quickest way to a girl’s heart is to twirl her,” but I think it should be modified to specify American girls.
Up till now, I’ve never had a problem of making this a reality in my relationships, but FBF hates dancing.
My obsession with dancing is apparently très americaine of me. FBF claims that French girls don’t care if their boyfriends dance with them. At first I found this really hard to believe. Who wouldn’t want their boyfriend to hold them close? Who doesn’t want to recreate movie moments?
I want to danser un slow with Prince Phillip.
Teaching in a lycée (high school) this year has afforded me a new light on the situation. In every class I’ve met so far, there is always one girl who raises her hand, and while giggling, asks me if we really do have a prom in America.
The first time I got asked this question, I laughed. Why wouldn’t it be true? I explained that yes, American movies/TV shows were telling the truth, and that in fact we have three dances a year. I then asked them if they have any dances.
The answer? No. None at all!
It seems that while we are culturally taught to expect dancing from our significant others as early as middle school (I was 12 at my first dance!), the French are never taught to expect that kind of romance.
I’ve been working on FBF’s hatred for dancing. Can it really be so terrible to hold me in his arms and turn in a circle?
He’s been improving on this point. Instead of being like “oh je suis français et je deteste le dancing,” he lets me dance with him without complaint.
It would seem that American boys have the upper hand as far as dancing is concerned. My dad always says, “the quickest way to a girl’s heart is to twirl her,” but I think it should be modified to specify American girls.
March 11, 2010
Dating Customs
I am now another American girl dating a French boy. I am currently living out the fantasy of many an American girl who comes to this country.
This probably has to do with watching Beauty and the Beast when we were little. Dating a French guy, however, is not all enchanted castles and magic spells. Dating someone from another culture is weird a lot of the time.
I met my own personal prince charming at the New Year's Eve party I went to. We spent most of the night talking to each other, and before the party was over he had asked for my number.
He invited me to go to another party with him and his friends, which I gladly accepted. I wasn't sure at this point if he was actually interested in me, or just wanted to be friends with the American girl.
Once at the party, he pretty much ignored me (I later learned this was his strategy). While being ignored, I talked to the other French people at the party, and I asked a privileged few if they knew anything about the cute French boy who invited me to their party.
Because in America, when you're interested in someone you hang out with them, kiss them, and see where it goes before having the conversation about whether or not you want to be "exclusive," I decide to take matters into my own hands. I gave Monsieur France a kiss just as the night ended.
He called me shortly there after and invited me to see Avatar. I thought things were going on track, and was waiting to see how things went before having the exclusivity talk. He, on the other hand, was already exclusive.
I realized this when he used the word "girlfriend," referring to me, maybe a week later.
My immidate reaction was, "when did we talk about whether or not I wanted to be your girlfriend?"
I was then informed that when you kiss someone in French culture, that means you're really seriously interested in them and want to be their petite amie/petit ami. The label is automatically applied, unless, of course, it's for a one night stand.
Since ours clearly wasn't a one night stand, I was automatically his girlfriend in his weird Frenchy brain.
Their way of doing things seems outdated to me, as if I'm suddenly in the 1800s and whoever I kiss I need to be serious with.
My American way of doing things seems childish to him. He thinks it's really weird to have different steps.
I believe our way of doing things allows you to get to know someone before you decide whether or not you want to "take things to the next level." They seem to skip over that in France.
FBF's reaction to that was, "typically in France, you already know the person pretty well before kissing them." Not that I believe him, of course, as he clearly didn't know me that well.
Regardless of which dating system you prefer, I definitely am his girlfriend, and am quite content to have the label.
This probably has to do with watching Beauty and the Beast when we were little. Dating a French guy, however, is not all enchanted castles and magic spells. Dating someone from another culture is weird a lot of the time.
I met my own personal prince charming at the New Year's Eve party I went to. We spent most of the night talking to each other, and before the party was over he had asked for my number.
He invited me to go to another party with him and his friends, which I gladly accepted. I wasn't sure at this point if he was actually interested in me, or just wanted to be friends with the American girl.
Once at the party, he pretty much ignored me (I later learned this was his strategy). While being ignored, I talked to the other French people at the party, and I asked a privileged few if they knew anything about the cute French boy who invited me to their party.
Because in America, when you're interested in someone you hang out with them, kiss them, and see where it goes before having the conversation about whether or not you want to be "exclusive," I decide to take matters into my own hands. I gave Monsieur France a kiss just as the night ended.
He called me shortly there after and invited me to see Avatar. I thought things were going on track, and was waiting to see how things went before having the exclusivity talk. He, on the other hand, was already exclusive.
I realized this when he used the word "girlfriend," referring to me, maybe a week later.
My immidate reaction was, "when did we talk about whether or not I wanted to be your girlfriend?"
I was then informed that when you kiss someone in French culture, that means you're really seriously interested in them and want to be their petite amie/petit ami. The label is automatically applied, unless, of course, it's for a one night stand.
Since ours clearly wasn't a one night stand, I was automatically his girlfriend in his weird Frenchy brain.
Their way of doing things seems outdated to me, as if I'm suddenly in the 1800s and whoever I kiss I need to be serious with.
My American way of doing things seems childish to him. He thinks it's really weird to have different steps.
I believe our way of doing things allows you to get to know someone before you decide whether or not you want to "take things to the next level." They seem to skip over that in France.
FBF's reaction to that was, "typically in France, you already know the person pretty well before kissing them." Not that I believe him, of course, as he clearly didn't know me that well.
Regardless of which dating system you prefer, I definitely am his girlfriend, and am quite content to have the label.
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