Promenade putain

The weather has that summery feeling again, the wind is warm and full of aromatic smells. There was a whole street near Grimaldi that smelled like someone cooking curry. Aaaah. I was out running errands earlier and I could smell the sea two streets back from the seafront, so as it had me by the nose, I went to have a walk on the prom. I just stood enjoying the waves and the lovely fresh seaweed smell. I sat down on the rail on the edge of the front, imagining white horses on pebble beaches… and yes, thirty seconds after I sat down, I got hit on.

Twice, in the space of a minute. What is wrong with these French men? What do you do in that situation? I have tried shaking my head and ignoring them, but that seems to lead me further into their hands. It’s like a beggar asking for money – the social embarrassment of the situation means you’d rather not reply, but then they get insistent, try to humiliate you for your supposed rudeness. Here’s what’s rude: persisting on hitting on me when I’m clearly trying to ignore you! I didn’t come to the promenade looking for sex: I came to look at the waves.

“I’m sorry, I’d like to be alone thank you.” There. You made me say it. You’ve embarrassed us both.

J. doesn’t really understand. Of course he’s never seen it from a woman’s point of view. Men tend not to hit on me when he’s around, and he wouldn’t have the same reaction if a woman hit on him. I always tell him. Sometimes I wonder if he believes me, since he’s never seen it happen, and it’s not as though I’m stunningly beautiful. “You will leave the apartment while I’m away, won’t you?” he’ll ask. To do what? I can’t go anywhere or sit anywhere. “Yes you can, you can go and have a coffee.” No I can’t, not by myself. A single woman is a target. The argument descended into the ridiculous: I feel slutty sitting on my own, I look like I’m trying to pick someone up! “But I’ve seen loads of French women sat on their own.” Finally I promised him I’d go out. With that in mind, I waved his taxi goodbye and went to the seafront, where I was promptly hit on.

Sometimes I wish I had a sign, or I could use the coloured handkerchief in the back pocket system: green for go, amber for maybe, red for “back off you predatory scumbag”. I was reading through some of Riverbend’s old blogs, and she was explaining how to Muslims, the “hijab” (headscarf, not veil) is to protect females from sexual harassment. “It acts as a sort of safeguard against ogling and uninvited attention.” I wonder if it actually works? Do you think a mock wedding ring would do the same thing? I hope so. Then I can just hold up my hand and say, “Non monsieur: regardez,” and no one will have to be embarrassed. Do you think women ever get pestered into marriage by these predatory men, just so they can have the protection of the wedding ring? Perhaps it’s all a male plot.