Hello James

When Chris and I learned of our eventual move to Paris, I immediately called for help. Consider it the bat signal for friends of Dorothy. By doing so, you immediately have a network of friends at your disposal - most of them willing to extend an open hand to help you any way possible.

Today, I met one of the respondents to our call - James. He's been a wonderful support system over the past few months. For example, when we were looking for flat in Paris, James advised us against living near the Eiffel Tower. "Nobody will ever see you there," he said. And when we had to choose between a flat in the first or the sixth arrondissement, he screamed, "The first! The first!" From that, as well as our gut feelings, we chose the first. Now, if we have any complaints regarding our living arrangements, we can always blame James.

James arrived at noon. Fortunately, I was able to Fabreeze the hallway before his arrival. I didn't want to choke him with the smell of fried bass. When I opened the door, he looked nothing like I had imagined.

You see, when you speak with someone over the phone, you can't help but paint a picture of whom they'll resemble. As I told James, I thought he'd look like Matthew Broderick. Needless to say, he bears no resemblance to the star of War Games and recent winner of the Tony for the Producers. In turn, I asked him about me (contrary to popular belief, it's not always about me - only sometimes and this time was one of them). As he described, he didn’t expect to see a “California surfer boy.” It must be the hair. God knows it’s not the newly found wrinkles I spotted on my forehead this week. Can the pollution be affecting me so soon?

Anyway, we headed out to lunch. What I soon learned is that Chris and I aren’t the only "sweaters" in Paris. Apparently, James is human torch as well. So we opted to stay out of the sun and dine inside a charming creperie restaurant nearby. Sadly, it wasn’t any cooler. We both started to perspire. At least I was wearing what I refer to as “half pants.” They aren’t pants. They aren’t shorts. They’re “half pants.” James was in jeans and a long-sleeved shirt forcing him into roasting mode quite quickly. As we finished our meal, I alerted James that I was a bit concerned about sweating through my “half pants.” Would I be able to leave the restaurant in dignity with a sweaty ass? Fortunately, for both of us, I was soft and dry and under control.

In the end, James displayed all the characteristics of a fine, gay gentleman – smart, witty, and groomed from head to toe. I look forward to seeing him again on Saturday night along with his partner David and a few other friends they’ve invited over for cocktails.

And James, if you’re reading, that wasn’t so bad was it? You truly were the best.