Coming to Paris made me understand one very significant thing: back in Portugal, men don’t know how to flirt. Even cab riders have a meaningful flirtation speech in Paris.
On the first night, the restaurant manager appeared to remember me from the last time I was here, so he made me some sort of company during dinner, as he could not really grab a chair and join me. He loved Portugal and his heart will be devided if France and Portugal meet up in Euro’s final.
He asked me to watch the game with him. And he promised some nice drinks.
On the next day, the taxi driver made an impreddes and impressive speech about Cristiano Ronaldo’s football and personal skills and how he is untouchable for everything he has done for the arabic world. He will definetly marry a portuguese woman if Ronaldo comes to PSG. He asked me if men are all stupid, as I’n not taken yet. He gave me his phone number so we could watch the match together. Or have a cup of coffee. Or “share a moment”.
He will be cheering for Portugal even if the final is against France.
I should move here. I bet I would be married in a blink of an eye. Forget Tinder and all sorts of chats. Paris is the real deal.