De Nîmes Look

It is cold, way colder than we expected in the South of France. The trees are stark and naked. The skies are grey: Vancouver-grey. I've slipped a zippered top on underneath my jacket and M keeps my left hand warm in his. Nîmes has not yet shrugged off winter.

We're on our way up the Boulevard Alphonse Daudet toward the Quai de la Fontaine. We hope to beat the rain and slip in one more tourist site, the Castellum, before calling it a day. The Castellum is what remains of the Roman distribution tank that received the water ducted from 50kms away via the magnificent Pont du Gard more than 2,000 years ago.

I sense M looking at me. I glance up. He is giving me a wishy-washy puppy-dog look. I burst out laughing and ask, "Did you see another one?" He nods and continues to give me the puppy-dog-I'm-so-in-love-with-you look. My laughter turns into a hacking cough: the remains of a cold that won't go away.

France is the country of lovers. At first we thought it was just Paris. We wondered then, if indeed, something was put in the water because of the many times we saw Parisians look longingly into each other's eyes and be openly and unabashedly affectionate in public. Less than two days in Nîmes and we've noticed that this small city in the South of France can give its larger counterpart up north a run for its open display of affection.

The Parisians, though, would win in the art of seduction. The adult lovers bring a contagious charm to their displays of affection. So much so, M and I felt inspired to follow suit when we ambled along the Seine.

In Nîmes, the participants are primarily teenagers. What they lack in maturity they make up for in enthusiasm. They lock legs, arms, eyes and lips with oodles of zest. Learning the art of French seduction must start somewhere and beginner lessons look like this. The greatest turn-off is the soppy look of love shared between the young lovers. The same look M is still giving me as we stop to cross the road at the Quai de la Fontaine.

I get my hacking cough and laughter under control and sputter, "Please stop it. It's so mushy!" I shudder. This time it has nothing to do with the cold.