On Thursdays I'm Sexy

For the second week in a row I have had the most absurd experiences whilst traveling home from French , all involving Francophone men which does not help with the stereotype at all.

Indeed, any woman that has passed through Geneva will not leave without at least one story about bizarre unwarranted attentions from the stranger members of the night-time crowd. I would add an aside at this point, particularly for my mother, that at no point am I in any danger. Unless I were to choke from excessive laughter, or in a case of particularly bad B.O.

So, I thought I'd recap some of the funnier/bizarrer (adjective check?) stories; either my own or ones that I can shamelessly steal from friends and legends...

Tonight it started at a tram stop when a motorbikist passing across the way appeared to be waving at me. I ignored this as probably a traffic signal and definitely not pertinent to my future marital status so was surprised to find a few moments later that he had decided to turn in the road and come say hello - or "bon soir". Now usually I would of course ignore the strange advances of strange men in the night time. However, given the Anglophone-heavy nature of my life in Geneva I have begun to take these as golden opportunities to practise colloquial French speaking. I was delighted to find that I could both understand and refuse an offer for a lift and compliments however trite do sound better in French.

Now, I am being brutally honest when I say that even I do not think I am worthy of this attention today of all days. I ought to have washed my hair this morning and the rolled down ankle socks with summer skirt look is not that hot. All before mentioning the major circles under my eyes (been up too late watching House... mmmmmm) and random assorted bag-like garments that I was wearing. However, this did not put off bikeman. Neither did it prevent the oddball opposite me on the bus a little bit later on from persisting to make eye-contact till he got off (the bus) and then proceeding to my window and making gestures towards my face and other generally enthusiastic beckonings. With hindsight I suppose I may have had something on my nose but this ought not to have preoccupied him right up until the point that the bus overtook.

Last week made an impression simply because as the three of us were walking back from dinner to Cornavin (you ought to be avid enough to recall the post that referred to this evening and thus who sad three are) there was a passing cyclist who really shouldn't have turned around 3-times to try to 'connect' as he rode up Rue du Mont-Blanc. I was kind enough respecting the danger his life was in to not try out my latest put-downs at that point. It did seem a little silly though and as such the memory has stuck.

None of them are fussy either. I was once on my way home carrying a whole load of 'stuff' that was effectively rubbish I found in the street (kitsch objets d'art) and the only issue this posed to the man of the moment was whether I would mind moving it so he could sit next to me on a practically empty bus.

A particular favourite anecdote is when a friend had a man join her under her umbrella (sorry to steal Andrea but it is good!) and try to chat her up whilst invading her personal space and ensuring she was getting wet round the edges. Always a sure bet. I have also heard of full-on marriage proposals happening at the bus stop and even when the predator and prey do not speak a word of the same language that does not stop them wanting to call you up!

I just don't get what it is that these guys think they will achieve from all this..? Are there actually women out there who, when swooned, stared or muttered at, melt at the knees and go "oh yes, I want some of that" and it is they who are encouraging these men to persevere with such tactics? Surely they should have worked out by now from the spectrum of reactions, that I can only imagine range from polite and silent disgust to actual bodily harm, that these well intended advances will not in fact make them any luckier.

OK, so one guy was really quite smooth and did in fact have a potentially winning line. It was in Starbucks on a Saturday afternoon and thus obviously a different class of perv was aprowling. After some good practising of français he offered me his card telling me he was a photographer and was looking for some new models. Now ladies, that is of course difficult not to blush at, look coy and inadvertently satisfy his aspirations of making a good impression. As he leaves I look down at the card and am confronted with a black and white image of a bare-chested woman languishing under the website address. Gutted I kick myself:

aspiring political careers are always spoiling my fun...