Yesterday afternoon I took advantage of the rainless sky to take some pictures with our camera. I was meeting Jeff at the café at 5pm, so I had an hour to aimlessly walk Dijon, looking for interesting shots. Coming around the back of Notre Dame, I took a photo of the picturesque area. When I looked away from the viewfinder, I acknowledged an old French man who was watching me, standing in the middle of a quiet street next to his bicycle. He said "C'est bien, non?". Initially I thought he was wondering about my digital camera, but realized soon enough he was referring to the beautiful old church. He was interested in speaking, so I closed the lens and turned the power off to my camera.

I was happy to have this opportunity to speak to a long-time resident of Dijon, and one who didn't speak English. I thought, wow! Will Jeff be impressed that I have initiated a conversation with a non-English speaking Frenchman on the street! The old man was wearing a bulky grey coat and a beret made of leather. He was clean, his clothes weren't well-worn, his shoes polished and his bike looked as if he had just purchased it. He had bushy white eyebrows perched over his glistening blue eyes. He also had the most charming smile, which he displayed during our entire visit. He first wanted to know if I was Suisse. That was a first. I said, no, that I was an American living in Dijon with my husband, with whom I was meeting in a bit. His smile widened; his eyes grew brighter. He expressed his fondness of the Americans who liberated them in the war. We talked about a relative of his who lives in Puerto Rico. He told me about the vacations he has had. We discussed his family, his work in the war, the mountains he has climbed. Literally. When I had questions he listened carefully.

We were standing close to each other, me so I could catch his French words before they ran past my ears. I also needed to bend my head down to hear him; I had a good 8 inches on him. He reached out to hold my hand, which I gave him. I leaned forward to give him two kisses on his cheeks as the French do, and it occurs to me as he leans towards me that his lips weren't headed for my cheek. He seemed to be gently steering me away from the sides of his face to its center. I brushed this off as kindness considering our very obvious age difference. We finally formally introduced ourselves to each other, and, after ten minutes or so of discussion I decided to suggest he come with me to the café to meet Jeff. But, before the words came, Robert (that's Rrrrow-bearrrr in French!) suggested we go for a drink. I thought to myself, Great! He is thinking he'd like to come with me to meet Jeff and continue our conversation! I reminded him of my plans to meet my husband, and from there I am not sure what happened. But suddenly from the old lips of this old man came mention of food and a hotel. It hit me like lightening. This nice, charming old man wanted more than a kiss on his lips. Hiding my surprise, yet amused and oddly flattered, I told him no, that I was married. The mention of marriage seemed to encourage him. He made his suggestion again, that he get us a hotel room, taking my hand in his. We could get a drink, eat a bit, get a room. He held my hand firmly, all the while smiling a big smile, his head tilted up, his sparkling eyes glistening as they searched mine for a positive response. He just looked so happy. I told him it was impossible, but that it was a pleasure speaking with him. I said au revoir and I gave him two more cheek kisses. Of course, he once again took the opportunity to try for my lips. Ah, diligence. To politely get my hand back, I asked if he would allow me to take his picture. He did, and now I will remember Robert forever as a mischievous old Frenchman, reminding me once again that what you expect to find is not always what you find.