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My love affair in France started with a boy and a kangaroo. The boy was blonde and beautiful; the kangaroo was grilled and served with a side of salad and chips. Searching for a unique French experience, I figured eating kangaroo at a classy, modern restaurant would be an interesting story to tell my friends.

Unable to read the menu, I asked my date to translate.

“Beef, chicken, kangaroo…” he said.

“Whoa, whoa… what?!” said I.

Noticing my confused face, he tried to explain what a kangaroo was by making a hopping gesture and curling his hands.

“I know what a kangaroo is, but where does the meat come from?” I asked.

“There are kangaroo farms,” he explained, “where kangaroos are raised for food just as chickens are.”

Well I thought that was just a hoot, and so I ordered the meal. Surprisingly, the meat was delicious: tender and rich, like a thick steak. Normally I don’t ever eat red meat, but I had no qualms about devouring this marsupial (until a friend later pointed out that they have eyelashes).

Our romantic meal ended with a romantic stroll along a moonlit beach, reclining on a bench and chatting awkwardly about our separate lives. I deemed it one of the most serene moments of my life, never considering the fact he might have ulterior motives. 

“Why don’t we sit on this bench here in this secluded, dark corner?” he suggested.

How sweet, I thought.

A few days later, I met a woman in Paris whom I paid to escort me around the city and show me the sights. As we observed the Eiffel Tower twinkling from across the Seine, I told her about my encounter with the kangaroo, and how surprised I was to hear that there were kangaroo farms here.

“I mean, how do they raise them? Don’t they need hot weather?”

My guide, having lived in Paris for 10 years, was perplexed. “I’ve never heard of such a thing,” she said.

I felt the unease growing at the back of my mind like a flower waiting to bloom. First it was a seed of uncertainty; then it expanded into full-blown alarm. Was he playing me for a fool? Was he now sitting around a table with his French buddies, drinking French wine, and remarking about the silly Canadian girl who believed there were kangaroo farms in France and was too prude to even kiss him?

As soon as I made it back to my hotel room, I Googled the hell out of the Internet searching for “kangaroo farms in France.” What did I find? Nothing. Absolutely no concrete, legitimate answers to my fears. I sat back in my chair, opened a beer, and toasted to my fake French romance, the dream of every young girl, the epitome of sappy stories gone awry.