The French One

As a young girl of 14, I was of the opinion everything to do with France was pretty awful and incredibly overrated. France and I, had got off to a bad start when the world's worst student exchange partner was paired with me during the summer of 1995. She was a true sourpuss, by the name of Sandrine and who hailed from the ass crack of Normandy, or rather, Le Harve as it is commonly known. For years after, I failed to understand the appeal of the French and their ways, however that all changed, when I discovered Florence in Hong Kong a few years ago while traveling with one of my dear friends.

I had just graduated from university and whilst I was excited for what was around the corner, I was in a fragile place. Six months earlier, I had separated from someone who had the potential to be in my life forever as a significant other, however for reasons that perhaps I will share in a future posting, it wasn't to be. I came to Hong Kong to indulge and relax, but never thought I'd experience a holiday romance in a place that seemingly is populated by fiftysomething expats. As most of these, run of the mill holiday romance stories go, I was drunk when I first met Florence. He was an engineer who was living in Central Hong Kong for business. We spent hours chatting in what was Hong Kong's version of a dive bar and though I couldn't tell you now what the hell we had been gassing about for all those hours, I knew I liked this boy for that moment. It had been a while since I had felt like that about anyone, so when he asked if I wanted to go home with him, I didn't think twice.

Oh Hong Kong, how I enjoyed thee!

The end.