You and I, we are gentleman. It's ok.

Last night Paul played a party outside of Paris. The party train started at Rue de la Mare with me, Paul, Roxanne, Magalie, and Amanda. Our group grew as the night went on when Magalie's boyfriend Michael and his Scottish friends (and a Brit) showed up to rock the party.

Paul's set started late and the crowd was peaking when he was playing. Acid tracks, techno, and tech house scrambled the mind of the crowd and united them as one. A good time was had by all and as the night winded down I was one of the Scotts, and a fan of the second place Celtics who play for first play today.

While the crew were saying good byes I was the lone wall flower and was approached by a gentleman and his lady friend. After a few lines of broken french were conversed the gentleman told me I looked sad. I told him it was late and I was tired that was all. I will now attempt to recreate the dialog:

Gentlman and his lady friend walk up to the wall flower.

Gentleman: What's wrong my friend? You look (pulling his face into a frown) sad.

Me: No, I'm ok. Just tired.

Gentleman: Do you like the party? Are you having a good time?

Me: Oui. My friend was Djing earlier.

Gentleman: Why are you not dancing now? Do you not like the women? Here this is my friend.

Me: Bon soir.

Lady friend: En chante.

Gentleman: Come we will dance. ( I'm pretty sure he meant the three of us).

Me: Non merci. I am waiting for my friends. We are leaving soon.

Gentleman: There is nothing to worry about. She is not my girlfriend.

Me: Oh, I understand. Mais non, merci.

Gentleman: Why? Just for two minutes. Come. (The lady friend walks away.) What is wrong do you not like parties and dancing.

At this point I'm smiling because I don't want to look "sad."

Me: Non merci. I am leaving with my friends soon.

Gentlman: There is nothing to worry about. You and I, we are gentleman. It's ok. (The lady friend comes back.) How old are you?

Me: Veinte huit.

Gentleman: Twenty eight?!? (Turns to lady friend.) Twenty eight?!? No! You look twenty two, maybe twenty three.

Me: Merci.

Gentleman: (Takes an firm and uncomfortable hold of my left wrist.) Come lets go. We dance for two minutes.

Me: (Breaking his wrist and walking away.) No really. Thank you. (The lady frind walks away again.)

Gentleman: (Gets a little closer and looks at my face.) The french women, they do not like the mustache. You have a mustache.

(Jesus I'm shaking right now as I type this cause it's still freaking me out!)

Me: Um, yeah. I didn't shave.

So anyways you get the point. In the next five minutes of the conversation Paul walks by and I try desperately to say "help" with my eyes. It doesn't work and the chess game continues to a stalemate. He tells me something about him being Arabic and Morraccan and this is how gentleman do it.

Apparently I'm not a gentleman, and I think I'm ok with it.