To Be Polite Or Not To Be Polite

I’m British. I have a British passport and, although I’ve lived in Australia for thirty one years, as a permanent resident, and consider myself quite Aussie, it seems that you can take the girl out of Surrey, but you can’t take Surrey out of the girl. 

Politeness was valued highly when I was growing up. If you forgot to say please or thank you, you were bludgeoned and locked in the attic without food or water or air for forty days and forty nights. If you dared ask for something to eat, at someone else’s house, or asked a question that could be considered ‘nosey’ you were sliced in two, threaded on a skewer and fed to the neighbours for dinner. Politeness was a serious business and that was drummed into me from an early age. 

I bet you think I’m about to write about how rude the French are. Well, no, that is not so. In fact that has not been my experience at all. I have found Parisians to be most polite and very friendly and warm (except when driving, when walking down the street, and on the metro.  In these circumstances it's every man for himself.  People slam into you, push you out of the way, run you over and no one EVER politely gives way to anyone!) 

Yesterday, I found a cafe for lunch and politely asked for a table.  Once settled, as I do, I made eye contact with the waiter, smiled in a friendly manner and very politely ordered my meal, using as much French as I could, but sprinkling it lightly with a little English, which I like to think sends the message that I’m trying to be helpful, polite and respectful, even though I’m crap at languages. The waiter was very friendly in return and came back shortly with my drink. I thanked him, again with my British politeness, and he smiled warmly and winked at me.  That was rather cute and nice and made me blush in an ever-so-English way. 

When he arrived with my meal, he smiled, moved in a little closer, said the obligatory Bon appetite and winked again. Being hopeless at this sort of thing, I avoided eye contact for a while and stuck my face in my food and notebook. 

The same lovely waiter came to clear my plate and offer coffee just as I'd finished my food and started feeling like coffee.  His timely service and attentiveness elicited a grateful smile from me and another thank you.  I wasn’t sure if I'd read too much into it, but his eyes definitely seemed to linger on mine, and the coffee came with a special smile and a third wink (read ‘warm’ wink, not ‘sleazy’ wink – there’s a difference, I think).  Of course, I smiled and merci beaucoup'd all over the place.

When I could take no more, I asked for the bill, and my waiter delivered it, this time without making eye contact.  He hurried away, and I think even he was blushing this time.  As I checked the bill, I noticed there was another piece of paper folded into it, a hand written note: 

Votre charme n a d’egale que votre beaute.

Jean-Paul
T: 06...andsomeothernumbers 

I paid the bill and left a small tip (enough to say ‘I enjoyed your service Jean-Paul’ but not enough to say ‘I'm a sure thing, Jean-Paul’) and he touched my arm as I left, saying a bientot (see you soon) rather than au revoir.  

Later that day, a friend helped me translate: 
Your charm is matched only by your beauty.

Oh, come on!  Honestly Jean-Paul!  I was just being polite! I don’t know how to flirt! I’m hopeless! It was genuine Surrey-I-don’t-want-my-ear-cut-off-politeness!   Just because I'm not behaving like a Parisian woman, all aloof and pouty, eyes averted and impatient, my innocent and polite friendliness has somehow been cruelly twisted into slutty flirtatiousness!  Suddenly I'm a harlot, a strumpet, an easy foreigner.  I'm good for it. I'm a bit-a-skirt. I like to dance the horizontal samba. I'm a cheap seducer, a floozy, a tart!!!!

Your charm is matched only by your beauty!  Did Jean-Paul really think I would fall for such a gooey and unoriginal line?  Honestly!  Come on!

 
... We are meeting for a drink tonight...