I Prefer to Dress Like a Hobo

*Originally written in 2016*

Today I was reminded why it is best, as a human of the female variety, to dress like a hobo when venturing out into the Parisian urban jungle. Well, at least in my neighbourhood.

I recently bought a jacket, a sweater, and two pairs of jeans. I decided to wear this combo (just one pair of jeans) outside. Almost immediately I noticed the looks and comments from the over-represented men in the streets.  It was happening more often than normal. I was starting to feel uncomfortable. But I liked my new clothes! As long as they kept to themselves, whatever.

I went to Parc de la Villette, where I frequent, to play a little Pokemon, and extend my walk. I was battling at a gym, minding my own business when I was approached by a 32-year old Tunisian man named Fakur with a lazy eye and in serious need of dental work. I get approached all the time to answer basic questions or give directions, so I asked him to repeat himself, and then I realized he was trying to pick me up. He asked me if I was single, and I said that I’ve been married for 6 years, but it didn’t put him off, and he felt at liberty to invade my personal space. “Let me give you a tour! This place is really cool! I live close by, so I know this place well.” “No thanks, I come here nearly every day”. Ok I’m giving myself way too much credit for my French right now, but I knew I was getting my point across. He would try changing topics, which is how I learned his age and where he’s from, etc, and then go straight into “Give me your number, we can meet up sometime”.

“No”

“Why not?”

“It’s not a good idea.”

“Just as friends. You need friends in France.”

“No. My husband is very jealous anyway.”
I reiterated the fact that I’m married.

“You know you have amazing eyes. Very beautiful.”

“My eyes? Thank you.”

“And your hair. It’s just how I like it.”

“Well, it’s long.”

He grabs my hair, “So nice. I like it best like this.” He puts my hair behind me.

Now I’m really uncomfortable. I start to back away.

“Are you scared of me?”

“No.”

In reality, I am. The place is almost empty except for a few other men. I’ve already been attacked once. I don’t get the feeling that he would get aggressive in public, but I can’t be too sure. I walk away. “Thank you for talking to me. It was a pleasure.”

“Come on. Let’s be friends.”

“No. It’s not a good idea.”

After some convincing, he finally stops following me, and walks the other way. Unfortunately there is a group of 3 men heading in the same direction as I am. One of them breaks off from the rest and starts walking quickly towards me. I can hear him saying something in a low voice, but I can’t tell what it is. I start walking in a slightly different direction, and he changes direction as well. Every time I turn my head enough to see him, he says something sinister-sounding. I speed up. He speeds up. Now I’m terrified. I am 100% certain he is following me. There is no one else around, despite it usually being a popular public place. Finally, to my relief, his friends whistler him over. He hesitates, then stops and turns around. Now I have to be worried about two different men following me home. Luckily, nothing aside from more looks and comments happen to me on the way home.

For this final week that I am in France, I will go back to dressing like a hobo.