Of French Girls: Part 1
It was the last day of our five day trek through the picturesque landscape of Bavaria, and through some mismanagement of our time throughout the week, they had saved the longest bit of hiking for today. Which wouldn't have been too bad, except the French had this uncomprehensible habit of stopping everyday after a few hours of good hiking (Just enough to get you warmed up) for about a four hour rest period which comprised of lunch, a 45 min. siesta, and a 45 min. lecture which always ended up being more like an hour and a half. Today however, they had decided to show a little wisdom and shorten ou resting period to one hour. Just enough time for them to barely get their food down. We Americans, however, were done and ready to go in about 15 minutes. As we stood around waiting for our French compatriots, the weather took a drastic turn. The temperature dropped, the wind picked up, and it started to rain. Hard. And so they expedited the ending of their meal, and we took off.
It rained pretty much the rest of the time we hiked that day. And it was towards the end of the day that I decided to pick up my pace and get towards the front of the line. I was walking up the side of when I got nudged by one of the French who knew a moderate amount of English, not enough to be too engaging for a while but enough to cause some trouble. So I stopped to see what he wanted, because he was one who was particuliarly curious and was always asking questions. Pointing to the girl that was walking next to him, he said, "She think...she think you are...um...beautiful." and smiled at his succesful attempt at having communicated something in English that I understood. More than a little taken aback, and not wanting to get into any trouble, I attempted to convey to him to tell her, "That if she thought that I was beautiful, that her eyes must not work." He didn't seem to understand this completely, and so I tried repeating it a couple of more times, slower and pointing to my eyes as I said it. Finally a look of dawning comprehension spread across his features, and he turned to the girl and said something in French at which the girl looked slightly embarassed. I was slighly suprised by this until Fefe (for that was the name by which all of us Americans knew this particuliar French guy) turned to me and said with a huge grin on his face, "I tell her that you think she have beautiful eyes!" Much too embarassed and flabbergasted at this to try and convey anything more through the hands of the cruel language barrier, I retreated to the back with the rest of the Americans.
That's not it as far as stories containing French girl elements, but I must save some material for posting at another date;)