Sunset in the 16th

The exchange
goes something like this: man in designer suit with greasy slicked
back hair approaches van window. Man in the driver’s seat with the
sunglasses and black leather jacket rolls down window. Words are
exchanged. Man in designer suit with greasy slicked back hair opens the
back doors of the van and lets himself in.

The windows of
these vans are tinted very dark, and so I have yet to see an actual
prostitute–though if these women bear any resemblance at all to what
French men are seen about town with and seem to find attractive, the
prostitute has long dark hair that flows out and around her skinny
frame, revealing a pair of small, almost non-existent breasts.

This
is quite the shift from Los Angeles, where the ideal woman is the exact
replica of Barbie. She is tall, has long blonde hair, big blue eyes
(green are acceptable), large breasts, a fake-bake tan, and trouble
standing upright; LA guys like it this way. 

Je ne suis pas une pute. 

I,
myself, am tall, have long blonde hair, blue eyes and breasts that may
appear larger to the naked eye than they are in actuality; in Los
Angeles I am seen wearing sunscreen year round to prevent the formation
of a tan, and am forever trying to persuade my colorist to go
darker, darker, darker.  I never wear skirts. I live in constant
fear that I will be mistaken for an “LA girl”. This is a concern shared
by many blonde native San Franciscans.

One would think, since
physically I am the direct opposite of a woman that French men seem to
be attracted to, that I would be safe from harassment and naughty
looks. Au contraire…I am stalked in the métro on a daily basis,
whistled at on the streets and winked at in bakeries.  Why is
this–aside from the fact that I’m a tourist therefore and easy target?

Most
French men have televisions wired for cable and are well connected to
the internet. This allows them to view American television shows,
movies and pornography. Virtually every American porn flic stars a girl
who fits a physical description somewhat close to mine. I am,
therefore, treated with no respect and like a girl in one of the
late-night “picture shows” who never stands upright. As a result, I
will probably be in therapy for the rest of my life.

Je ne suis pas une pute.

In
the US we have very strict rules against this kind of behavior.
Laws there prohibit sexual harassment, though here, in gay Paris,
this kind of sexual aggression is a common sport for frequent male
métro riders. Do they expect to get a date out of their provocative
eye-twitching? Pardon me, laid? Or are they just pointing out that they
think that they know the kind of woman I am because I happen to have
been born with blond hair and breasts?

The answers are:  all of the above.

Incident 1:

Nuit
Blanche, a celebration in which the monuments in Paris are open all
night: I go out with some of my friends to a party and wind down the
night in a small café. It is 12:20AM and I have to leave before the
métro closes and I will be forced to walk home. I say goodbye to my
friends and start towards the Odeon métro station.  While I am
crossing the street, a tall dark man with a burgundy button-down shirt
and black dress shoes with tassels on them catches my eye and starts
harassing me in French. I pretend I don’t hear him and keep walking. He
follows me across the street, down the stairs into the métro station. I
tell him to leave. He doesn’t because, as he puts it, he’s in love with
me.

The train arrives, I get on, he gets on and continues to
stare at me all the way to Chatelet.  I look around for someone
who might be able to help me, but I notice that all of the people in
the car are men who are either winking at me or offering me a seductive
smile. We arrive at Chatelet. I get off the train, he gets off the
train, he follows me to change onto the second train. Again, I beg him
to leave but, he doesn’t because he’s in love with me.

One hour
later he has followed me all the way to my métro stop. I refuse to
leave the station for fear that he will follow me home.  I start
screaming. No one will help me. I walk up towards the ticket booth and
scream even louder. Finally he leaves.

Incident 2:

Two
weeks ago, I am on way to meet a friend from the States for a café at
St.-Germain-des-Prés. When the train arrives I am fortunate to be in
front of the great mob of people and am able to snag a seat. Ten
minutes later I become aware that the man sitting next to me with the
scar on his chin and the big silver skull ring on
his right index finger is trying to lick my earlobe. I give
him a dirty look and stand up.

Incident 3:

Five days ago,
lugging a large rug home from Habitat, I board the train at
Montparnasse. Five teen-aged boys with large puffy black jackets board
the train behind me. Fifteen minutes later I feel a hand grab my ass;
this is followed by another hand on my breasts. I am being felt up by
thirteen-year-olds. I maneuver the rug over my shoulder and
“accidentally” hit the boy behind me in the head. He cries out. I jump
off the train before they can follow me.

Last night, I’m riding
the métro home quite late and…surprise, surprise incident four: a
sketchy man wearing a jean jacket and a gold chain around his neck, who
is very, very short, boards the train and starts raising his eyebrows
at me. He makes his way towards me and serenades me in French. I
ignore him and move away. He then reaches out and touches me. That’s
it.  I slap his hand away and snap, “Je ne suis pas une pute.” (“I
am not a prostitute.”) I then point him in direction of the doors to
the white vans on Rue Marbeau and exit the train.

As I climb my
seven flights of stairs up to my studio, I refelct on what has
just occurred. What did I learn? How can I better get my point across
next time, without using physical contact? Why am I a nut
magnet who only attracts crazies? Maybe I should get a dog. A
little yapper like those women in my neighborhood who wear the Louis
Vuitton bags. I could train the dog to bite all scary men who attempt
to lick my earlobes in the metro. But I would have to carry the dog up
the stairs, so I’d  have to get a really small
dog, like the one in the old Taco Bell commericials… a dog that would
fit in my Louis Vuitton bag! Maybe I’ll get a ferret…though they do
smell.