The French Girl

"I told him I would have fallen in love with him," says Claire.

The following is a glimpse into The Salad Days… 

I once asked my friend Claire, a born and bred woman from Dijon, what it meant to be French. She explained it is a state of mind—being both annoyed and unbothered. Practicing altruism but also caring only about oneself. That is the French charm. 

Claire and I met on BumbleBFF in November 2022. We clicked immediately. Or maybe it was our mutual desire to connect that allowed us to become fast friends. “Do you want to try?” she asks, handing me her wine glass as we sit on a patio in Miami. 

We speak half in French, half in English but Claire is blunt. “Do you also find American girls dumb?” she says, as if not asking a question but trying to affirm that Americans value casualness in all their relationships. 

“I think maybe they’re afraid to be vulnerable,” I say. 

Claire is in the midst of a romance with a Brazilian-American named Igor. 

“It’s a fun relationship,” she says. “I try to do something every day. Either meet him, a friend or go to the gym.” 

I realize that we only have about 17 days to build a friendship. Claire is returning to France and me to Toronto. We meet nearly every day. 

We watch two movies at the theatre. We go to an art museum, bar hop, cheer on French soccer, and eat at a restaurant called Baba Gump. Most importantly, we dive deeply into conversation. 

The two of us are sitting across from one another at a Christmas-themed cocktail bar. “For me, there is a difference between passion and love,” she says. 

“I agree,” I answer. “Passion is just the initial spark. Love, I guess you can discover you love someone after a year. It’s something that’s built.” 

“Exactly, yes. Passion is short-lived,” she says. 

“They’re easy to confuse,” I add. 

Later that week, we walked around the Pérez Art Museum. “You are beautiful,” Claire tells me when I arrive a bit dishevelled but in a sundress. It is the French way, to be stylish but to never try too hard. 

“I decided that I’m going to tell Igor that if I were to stay in Miami, I could have fallen in love with him,” she says. 

She aimed to profess that she could have loved him with no motive. 

“That is beautiful,” I say. 

I’m aware that Claire ended a long relationship earlier in the year. A boy she had met when she was 16 and whom her family knew well. 

“I was engaged to him,” she admits to me as we share a shrimp platter. I am happy that in a city where everyone seems to count calories, I finally have someone to indulge with. 

“Oh wow,” I reply. 

“We were only engaged for a month,” she says. 

The relationship ended because Igor decided to join the French army without consulting Claire. 

“He didn’t consider me,” she says. “To love someone is to consider them.” 

“How did you handle the breakup?” I ask. 

“The first month, I didn’t know what to do. I cried to my parents. But I knew I was lying to myself. Even when we made love, I was lying to myself. A woman can lie to herself but her body never will,” she laughs.

“Do you miss him?” I question, mainly as a means to understand my own recent heartbreak. 

“No,” she says. “He messages me from time to time but I ignore him. I think it’s because he hasn’t made love to anyone else yet so he thinks of me.” 

We met twice more before we both had to leave Miami. A city Claire had once planned to begin building a life in before concluding it was mainly for amusement. 

“I’ll come visit you in Dijon,” I promise her. 

In June 2023, I split from my parents and brother on a family trip to take the train to spend the afternoon with Claire in Dijon. She greets me with a double-cheek kiss at the train station. 

“We are in a rush,” she tells the waiter at the restaurant we sit down at. “My friend is only here for a few hours. We need to order right away.” 

We choose a fish and a meat dish and swap plates halfway through eating. 

“The reason you couldn’t find yourself in Miami,” she says, “is because you are lively and smart and not a stupid American.” 

“Are you seeing anyone?” I ask. 

“Yes, I have a new boyfriend. I actually live with him and we have a cat,” Claire says. 

I am surprised by how much has changed in only six months. 

“With my first boyfriend, I never wanted a cat. But I was convinced.” 

How quickly salad turns to meat and potatoes with the right person. We share dessert at another restaurant, I buy Dijon mustard and Claire drops me off at the train station with a big hug and a double-cheek kiss.