I’ve been hit on several times during the four months that I’ve been there. The first was the day after I landed. I was innocently strolling the aisles of the local supermarket trying to make sense of all the foreign products. As I was walking in the canned goods section, I casually smiled at the security guard. (Yes, they have security guards in all supermarkets here.) Evidently he took my smile as an invitation. (Note: Parisians don’t smile at any stranger. Instead they look straight ahead and pretend that everyone else doesn’t exist.)

As I rounded the bread section, I’m stopped in my tracks by the security guard. We strike up a semblance of a conversation in my broken French, and he proceeds to ask me out. Since I can’t remember my phone number (give me a break, I’ve only been here a day), he gives me his. I thank him, make my purchases and walk out. I conveniently lose his number the next day. I also don’t shop there anymore.

The next time was on the street on a rainy morning between classes. We had a break, so I decided to visit the nearest Internet café. A fairly attractive man passed me and said, “Bonjour”. Before I could realize he was speaking to me, it was too late to return the greeting. Not two minutes later, he’s walking next to me trying to start a conversation. Still not adept at the language, I can understand little of what he’s saying. He too gives me his phone number and asks me to call. I lost that number too.

Now I know what you’re thinking. Why not just say no in the first place? I guess I’m not that good at it, and I’m terrible at rejecting people.

Fast forward a month. I’m meeting Dominique at the metro for dinner. I’m rather pleased with the outfit I’m wearing. So is a man on the metro. He follows me off the train, through the tunnels and out into the street. He passes me several times before he approaches. When I tell him a made up story about having a very serious boyfriend, he replied, “That’s okay. I don’t mind.” Hmmmm…. No again. Finally he gave up and disappeared among the metro crowd.

Yesterday evening I’m standing in front of Hotel de Ville talking on the phone with Denise, my best friend from Chicago. Two men casually stroll by and stop in front of me. They can tell I’m on the phone, but one of them begins speaking in rapid-fire French. I can barely understand what he’s saying, but I have a very clear picture of what he means. I smile politely, thank him for the compliment, and go back to my conversation – in English. The two men stand there for a moment while I ignore them, then finally walk away. But not far enough. They stand a short distance away, eyeing me for a few minutes. I feel like the latest cut of beef on display in the butcher’s case. I turn my back and keep talking. Again they walk by all smiles and then thankfully depart. I breath a sigh of relief.

Don’t get me wrong. The attention is flattering. But for some reason, I’m just not interested. I certainly do admire the French man’s persistence. I can’t be easy being a man, and I’m quite thankful I’m a woman!

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