(sunny side down)

I was sitting in a café this morning at a table along the wall, sipping a café con leche, writing furiously, minding my own business in general, when a man who was not a waiter approached my table. He asked if I spoke English, and then he asked if I wanted to do an intercambio (in which he speaks English and I speak Spanish), to which I responded that I’m going back to my country in a few days. Adios.

I am continually astonished by the nerve European men have to just go up and talk to that girl across the room they’ve been staring at. In a normal daytime situation, American men will more often than not just walk away. The European man will approach and come up with something stupid to talk about in order to score a date or a number. Angela and I were minding our own business on a bench by the duomo in Florence when an Italian man who had been sitting nearby staring at us finally got up the guts to approach and ask us if we spoke Italian. We obviously didn’t, and he barely spoke English, but he proceeded to stand there for a full 15 minutes awkwardly trying to construct the “Do you want to go out to dinner with me?” question with all the wrong words in English, then Italian, then standing there saying “Mamamia, Como si dicce…” Angela and I were again minding our own business, eating dinner on the ferry to Greece when a pair of crafty truck-driving Greeks who just happened to be sitting next to us had the waiter pour us glasses of wine that we didn’t want, and gave us half of their dinner to accompany it, which we also didn’t want. A clown on drugs came up to Anglea when we were window shopping and eating McDonald’s ice cream cones in Athens and told her she had “The most beautiful eyes,” then going on to talk awkwardly about the disappearing rainforests until he saw it was time to make his exit, saying, “I’ll miss your eyes.”

I was warned about the “piropos” before I came to Seville, a custom among Spanish men (and it seems among European men in general) to yell or whistle at women when they’re walking along the street. I can handle that, like the flea-market in Greece or Halloween in I.V., look down, keep walking, and pretend you can’t hear. But then there’ve been times when I’ve been walking and I’ll hear some man muttering something in Spanish under his breath. It happened quite often in Barcelona, where I’d translate for Angela, “Oh, that man thinks we’re pretty.” It happened last week as I was walking on the street and I heard, “Hey, girl, wait and I’ll accompany you.” And then there are the all-too-frequent “Hi’s” and “How are you’s” that are more demeaning than they are friendly and some of the other English words that men pick up from songs and movies that they shouldn’t be saying.

It’s a distinct culture difference, I think, between Europe and the U.S., that plays off the power roles and differences that still exist between males and females, not just in Europe but everywhere. Being the foreigner that I am and will always be, I still don’t know whether European men direct their attentions at only foreigners or at women of their own country as well. In any case, foreign girls are easy bait, like c/ Betis along the river where swarms of foreign girls go on the weekends dressed in their impossibly short skirts and halter tops to be yelled at by all the moped-riding Spaniards with gelled mullets and white pants who congregate there to do the yelling.

Of course, as with every generalization, there are exceptions, and I would like to acknowledge that there are many European men I know who are very nice and respectful. Indeed, I ended up with a very nice and respectful American man right off the bat that did his best to fend off the cunning Spaniards who would surround our group of girls at clubs and try to dance with us. Well it’s been interesting to say the least, and I’ll probably get back to the U.S. and find that the nice, respectful American men I’m talking about have found their huevos since I’ve been gone… so I’ll keep my pepper spray in my purse and my eyes down, willing myself invisible. I have quite a lot experience at that already.


On a lighter note, I realize I have forgotten to comment on Greek male fashion. You see, man purses are big in Europe, but in Greece (and Spain and Italy, but not as much), the fanny pack is at its height. Teenagers, old men, big, small, the fanny pack is The Definition of cool. It's pretty fantastic.