France is one of the rare places on this earth where men approach and attempt to talk to me.
I have no idea what they are trying to say because I raise my hand in warning and march away.
Though this evening a boy on a scooter drove up on the sidewalk and blocked my path. I have enough language to know that he was not asking for directions.
This would officially be the first stranger who has ever hit on me, but I’ve decided that it doesn’t count if it happens in Europe because that would be too easy.
I wrote to Jeffrey and described the incident and he replied:
You are so silly. You evaluate these occurrences on an individual basis by some outlandish criteria and then invalidate them. Face facts. You are a hottie and everybody wants you. As disturbing as that may be.
Unfair! I’ve never debated the relative issue of hotness because that is something predicated on confidence, not beauty. Even in my most backward moments I’ve always had attitude to spare.
Though I challenged Jeffrey for proof and he was forced to reply:
I do not hang out with you and strangers. And when I hang out with you, people don’t hit on you. So it is hard for me to have evidence. But I feel you have a lot of stories of “confusing” situations that just turn out to be someone blatantly hitting on you . . .
This is perhaps true– but the incidents he is referring to never, ever involve strangers.
For example: recently Iain overheard a performance artist trying to figure out whether or not it was okay to chat me up. Critically, the individual didn’t even make eye contact.