By Tanya Shaffer Date: 3 December 1999
The big problem with being a solo female traveler is that every horny Tom, Dick and Kwesi gloms onto you like a blood-hungry tick and won't let go. "Vous êtes seule?" they ask -- "You're alone?" -- and then, with growing excitement, "Vous êtes Americaine?" There's an instantly recognizable look to the eyes of men who are about to give you a sleazy come-on -- a hooded, dozy look intended to draw you in with the promise of candles, stringed instruments, expanding time, expansive beds.
Far more annoying than the men's incessant overtures, however, is the inexplicable fact that I feel guilty when I reject them. I remember an incident years ago in Baden-Baden, when an Italian guy I had met at the youth hostel wanted to go hiking with me. I said no, because he was already getting touchy-feely, and I knew I'd be fighting off his advances before we rounded the block. He reproached me with, "You must take risks when you are in a foreign country. Otherwise you miss it all."
Clearly this feeble attempt at persuasion was a garden-variety example of the depths the male species can sink to in its tireless quest to self-perpetuate. We know this, right? And yet, in spite of this knowledge, in spite of years of feminist education (well, not so many years -- I was only 19 at the time), I tormented myself for days, wondering whether I was cheating myself out of too much life.
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