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May I Have Your Attention, Please |
by Becky Herd
Just before I jetted off to Greece for the Easter holidays, my German host mother told me a story of her own from when she hitchhiked with a friend around the Greek islands. Minutes after she slid into the passenger seat of their next free ride, the driver put his hand on her leg. I never took her for a screamer, but that's what she said she did before she and her friend bolted. She offered it as a warning, I suppose.
"In my experience, Greek men are the most aggressive at trying to contact you in a special way," she said.
I'm sure I nodded in acknowledgement, repeating her exact phraseology in my mind so I could write it down later. I wasn't too worried about her story, because for one thing, it's not my practice to willingly enter the cars of strange men, taxicabs excepted. For another thing, I thought, maybe Greek men had backed off some in the last twenty-odd years since she'd been there. Italian men certainly hadn't lived up to the hype of the warnings I'd received about them. In any case, I felt travel-savvy enough to know how to stay safe.
So far, I'd already taken a number of trips out of Germany in the nine months I'd been living there, sometimes alone, sometimes not, and sometimes with people who became friends on the way. Greece was a trip I was taking with four other American women, three of whom were also living in Germany. We weren't worried, just excited.
Once in Greece, it didn't take long for us to realize that Greek men, for some reason, just wanted to talk to us. They practically needed to talk to us. When strange men started talking to me on the street in Germany, they were only ever after directions. But here in Greece, where we were obviously tourists, and these Greek men were obviously Greek, what could they have wanted?
"Do you speak English?" they wanted to know, as the group of us sat facing each other on the tram into Athens. "Do you speak English?" they asked us as we waited outside a restaurant. "Do you speak English? Do you speak English?" This was their go-to opener, their way to break up the conversation they'd already identified as English, to show us they were game to our foreign language. It hardly seemed to matter that we hadn't even made eye contact before they started speaking to us. (Sometimes, I'd learned, the least flicker of a glance is all the invitation a man needs.)
The four of us who'd flown over from Germany thought we'd just switch to speaking in German whenever we got asked the question. But what actually happened was that we'd become even more engrossed in our (English) conversations, and even more intent on each other's faces.
Possibly they only wanted to show off or practice their own English. I get the feeling that this is sometimes the case with nonnative English speakers. Looking back now, I don't think it would've hurt to see what they might have said next, given the chance. Were we too self-involved? On the other hand, maybe they have funny ideas about what American women actually want from a Greek vacation.
Going to Greece specially to look for the attention of Greek menÑnow that would be a whole different story. And you'd be hearing it from a whole different type of girl.
One day, Christina and the other Becky rented bikes to explore a little of the coast of the island Aegina. As they were stopped for a photo op, a local man came up to them and said hello. Christina returned the greeting and they started to push on, but not before he asked them, "You mean you don't want to talk to me?" As if he knew he held a certain appeal for foreign women. As if he himself were the tourist attraction.
What's the matter, girls? Didn't you come to check out the Greek gods?
While some Greek men were after us the women, others were after us the tourists. Beware, it's the waiters and shopkeepers who will actually pursue you.
One day around lunchtime we came upon a street so jammed with tables it was difficult to tell one restaurant from other another. Though we had no intention of eating there, we made the mistake of lingering for about two seconds at a posted menu, which is all the longer it takes to be noticed by the hovering owner and/or waiter. He flew over to us, spouting off whatever fare we Americans might be interested in (gyros, probably, or moussaka), pulling out chairs for us, but we'd already moved on. Other waiters called out their Greek specialties to us as we threaded our way through the street, but this first oneÑwas he following us?
Yup.
We hustled on into the next street, the shopping version of the street we'd left behind, each store spilling its jewelry and t-shirts and Grecian urns out into the narrow lane. Did we look worried by so much Greek chaos? Most of us were pretty accustomed to neat German orderliness.
"Girls, you can protect yourselves in my shop, and take a look as well!" one shopkeeper called out to us almost immediately.
We must've looked worried. But an invitation into a shop was about effective as being chased by a zealous waiter. And anyway, how would we protect ourselves from you, Mr. Shopkeeper?
Further along, other shopkeepers tried different tactics to entice us into their stores: "Where are you girls from? Where'd you get those sandals? We love America! We have family over there. Come here, I want to show you something."
In Greece, you just can't let yourself be buddy-buddied into buying anything you don't want -- souvenirs or otherwise. It doesn't seem to me that Greek men understand the charm and allure of being mysterious.
So be careful in Greece. Greek men are very aggressive at trying to contact you in a special way.
Becky Herd is the editor of the Travel section.
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