French men do have something different to them than other men. For one they have absolutely no problem asking you for your number in a toilet where all you did was smile to each other awkwardly. They also still expect that number even though they are laughed in their face over the request. It's silly, but it's amusing how little bounderies they seem to have.
There is of course also those who at least seem more like gentlemen. The ones that tell you you're beautiful, talk a bit, and then subtly ask for your number, or ask you to come out that night. That's a bit nicer, makes you feel more special. There is also something about their whole being that makes you feel like they've known you forever. Their confidence and, lets face it, desire, makes them the little puppy a woman wants, and with their soft voices they slowly make you fall for it. Salut Sol; long look with beautiful eyes. A ce soir Sol; a bise a bit longer than necessary followed by another too long look. 
They are like their own species. In any other country I've been in it's never been like it. Too shy or too blunt is the problem there. But not here, oh no. The men have made it an art to get laid, and as a stranger to this elegant form of chase, I play along, I let them whisper their words, and look back when their eyes meet mine.