So this week is all about celebrations, right? Well my loyal fans, one thing you can celebrate is me finding a husband. Not in Spain though. This affair took place one weekend in France.
Upon arrival to the beautiful French Alps, I was greeted by our 2 foot wide bunk beds; and you guessed it, they were not long enough for my legs to extend. But the bunk beds, for their unbeatable location in town, were perfect for our stay. After picking up my skis, boots, poles, 2 helmets, and my friend’s snowboard, I trudged back to our room—looking more American than ever. Within a few hours my friend and I hit the slopes; or rather, the slopes hit us; it seems there is very little snow in Europe right now, and it is a good thing I brought my sunny california demeanor because to be honest, I ran over many, many rocks.
After a leisurely, cheesy, wine and laugh-filled lunch, and a grueling hour on the slopes, we decided our taxing day had earned us an Apres-ski session. After putting our loud, rude American reputations to good use, we packed ourselves into a bus and made it to the bar we read about online. At the bar, we discovered something that doesn’t change when you leave the states: finance bros. We promptly made bets on which company they all worked at, what university they all attended, and of course, what frat they were in. A guy next to us said, You know how I know they’re American? Because only Americans wear those stupid sweater vests. I looked down at my vest, unsure if crossing my arms made it better or worse. I was more embarrassed by the guy wearing a felt jacket embroidered with the words “Beverly Hills Sushi Club ” on it but, I will no longer be wearing vests in Europe.
And as it turns out, my *almost* love story did begin the old fashioned way, at a bar. I can’t quite remember how the conversation started but I heard his American accent and I panicked, desperate not to leak my mutual Americanism. So, naturally, I proceeded to speak with a British accent for the rest of the night. I really didn’t think it through, though, because words like “Neuroscience” don’t exactly roll off the tongue easily in British. Plus, my roundabout story about how I was from London, but study at Harvard, but was now abroad in Spain didn’t exactly help my case, nor did my specific local knowledge about California that I blamed on relatives. By the end of our night I had my friend tapping my shoulder, “Loouuulouuu!” Though impressed that she followed my British lead without instruction, she eventually confessed to wanting to leave out of fear of being caught.
The next day we trekked up the longest, steepest, hottest, 20 minute “walk” that google maps has ever lied about to get to the ski lift. At lunch time we agreed that we needed to make more friends and remember that being embarrassed was necessary. What’s the worst that could happen? We were never going to see anyone in this town again. So by the time apres, and then dinner, came around, we were ready to rock and roll.
At the same bar as the night before, someone grabbed my hand as I made my way to the counter. I looked over: nothing. I looked up: nothing. I looked down: a 5’8” man was asking to buy me a drink. Instinctually, I laughed. But before I could answer, my friend jumped in, “YES YES you can buy her a drink.” I walked towards him and tested his humor, elevating my hand through the crowd for a french greeting. He kissed my hand and I laughed; he passed the humor test.
He proceeded to ask if I had heard of him. Why? I asked Why would I have heard of him? He replied, Well, I’m the best dancer in the alps, haven’t you heard? His friend jumped in. No, I’m the best dancer in the alps, he’s okay too. Now they’d both passed the humor test. Unfortunately, tragedy struck! They were Americans—my international love dreams once again, crushed. However, the night did remind me how funny people are when you can understand their jokes! I’m mostly used to jajaja instead of hahaha, but I’m still working on my Spanish and French slang. Abroad has already changed me.
We hung out with the Americans all night, but sadly, my friend made me promise not to speak in a British accent. Take this as a warning: the French Alps did have some of the most inappropriately aggressive men I’ve ever experienced. When I told my short dancing king what had happened, he continued to move me and my friend away from the culprit, announcing I was his girlfriend. After laughing the first time, I eventually bought into the bit, bending my knees to rest a head on his shoulder. Sometimes, sometimes, men can be okay.
Around 5am, after being in an indoor-smoking-only nightclub, (probably my first and last time at one of those), we meandered home, grimacing at our plans to ski by 9am. As we left the nightclub, my short dancing king asked for my phone number. I told him he could have it, but only if he proposed to me while we skied. Deal, he said. Mind you, we had not even kissed. We had just spent a hilarious night together. Plus, of course I wanted to be proposed to if I could. It was a bold ask, but again, he passed the humor check.
As the persistent women we are, by the time 9am rolled around, we were already on the slopes. By 2pm, I received a FaceTime. No way, I laughed, showing my friend. I picked up for a minute, but the spotty service and the fact that I couldn’t stop laughing made me give up quickly. Okay, where are you? I bought a ring in town, his text read. The poor guy proceeded to chase us around the mountain to try to catch us before we had to catch our bus. Sadly, he didn’t get to us in time. So he didn’t get his kiss. but I have now been invited to ski in Vermont or a drink in New York, both paired with a proposal. Too bad for him, it doesn’t snow enough in Vermont to ski and I hate New York. So I guess this one did go how I had hoped…boy meets girl at bar, boy falls in love with girl, girl breaks his heart.
My greatest life lessons from this weekend: ask for a proposal, say yes more often, find the best dancer in town, and remember that you can sleep on Sundays. Moving forward, I promise some of my columns will pass the Bechdel test. Maybe… Probably… Hopefully.
Lulu Patterson ’24 (lpatterson@college.harvard.edu) writes Forum for the Independent.