Let's face it, the mention of German men doesn't evoke much passion. Never have I seen a friend break into a dreamy smile en route to Berlin, or wax poetic about some German dreamboat she had just men. German men always seem a bit like German food—you're sure it’s fine, maybe even good, but you don’t consciously seek to experience it.
Hot dudes and humus. No, this is not the title of my impending memoir but A.) this Instagram account and B.) two things my girlfriends guaranteed I would be “literally, obsessed with” when I announced my plans to finally touch base with 50 percent of my heritage and pay a visit to Israel.
When it comes to dating, Paris and New York are like two famous men: both come with reputations that precede them. On one side of the Atlantic we have have the elitist Frenchmen, self-proclaimed ardent lovers who, paradoxically, reject the entire concept of “dating” as a restricting endeavor where romance goes to die.
When I was 11-years-old, I went on an exchange program in a French city called Nîmes. On my first night there, a boy named Arnaud confronted me with two pressing questions—Did we have electricity, and did bears roam the streets of my native Saint-Petersburg? (And so began my rapport with French men...)
Over the past four years, I have practically made a (pro-bono) career of analyzing the French and their laissez-faire stance on everything, dating included. And so I thought it would only be fair to finally give la parole to one of their representatives—a Frenchman who has spent the past nine years acclimating himself to l’amour à l’Americain.
Of all the men on the planet, it appears that nobody drives women crazy like the Italians. The mere thought of a trip to Italy seems to send most of my girlfriends into daydream overdrive, as they envision themselves succumbing to the charms of a tall, dark-haired Fellini hero.