“Where are you from?”
“Ottawa. Well, technically, France, but I’ve been in Canada for 25 years.”
“Twenty-five years? But how old are you?”
I laughed. “43.”
“HOLY SHIT! No way! Like, you have kids and stuff?”
“Just one kid and yes, life experience if that’s what you mean by ‘stuff’.”
Students kept hitting on me—in the nicest way possible—at the Toronto college residence where we were staying for the weekend. Maybe it was the hormones, the influx of new faces from Booking.com, and the unofficial, conveniently dark smoking corner behind the building all working together.
It was unexpected and almost flattering. The last time a Canadian flirted with me in Ottawa was never—I suspect the local courting ritual involves showing each other lanyards with long job titles in federal government offices. Or maybe I just don’t meet the local standards of attractiveness, because I think I could walk around naked without a second glance, except by a Karen calling bylaw enforcement.
My peak time for attracting male attention was between 1994 and 1999. It wasn’t a 1990s thing and it sure wasn’t because of my stunning looks—nope, in hindsight, I can be fairly certain it was because I was 11 to 16 at the time. I must have looked innocent. I must have looked easy to corner.
It was never the cute guy at school whose attention I was desperately trying to get by skillfully forging his parents’ signature on tests. It was always random much older guys in the street at random times in my teenage life—going to the library, taking the bus or waiting for a friend in front of the record shop.
I was never innocent enough to say “yes” to anything, and I wasn’t experienced enough to shout, “Leave me alone, I’m fucking 14.” So instead, I mastered the art of giving countless fake phone numbers with a big smile—the best way to get rid of someone you’d never want to see again.
I think I was lucky. My “no,” verbally expressed or implied through obvious reluctance, was always respected. I was eventually left alone. I was never forced to do something I didn’t want to do.
I mostly skipped the bars and clubs stage because I spent my late teens and twenties travelling with Feng. I was clearly already with someone, and probably way too foreign to attract anything but curiosity. Your average Bolivian, Salvadorian or Singaporean guy isn’t going to bother hitting on a traveller because of the potential language barrier and general hassle.
Once Mark was old enough and my hatred of Canadian winter pushed me back into solo travel, it took me a day or two to remember what to say and how to act as a seemingly single woman.
But I had changed. I no longer looked innocent. And the times had changed too.
In Latin America, I usually manage to insert “my husband” into the first sentence when talking to a taxi driver, an Airbnb host or a kind stranger. It took some practice because this is not exactly the kind of thing I say spontaneously, considering it’s not my entire identity.
“Yeah, well, I’m married too, who cares.”
Mentioning your husband does not work in Peru. Peruvian men almost see it as a perk.
Damn.
The stereotype with Latinos is kind of true. They try relentlessly, never mind the “my husband and my son” line. I tend to avoid men if I have a question, like directions or travel advice. I turn to women and hang out with them. I have yet to be hit on by a Latina.
And it’s worth noting that older Latinos are the worst. Thirty- and twenty-something men are more of a “nunca más” generation and way more respectful. The message is getting through.
China is much easier. I’m obviously a foreigner and I’m not expected to speak Chinese. Now, when I do start talking, it does get… interesting. Apparently, Chinese men fantasize about white women the same way white guys are into Asian girls.
I didn’t investigate further. Trust me, one Chinese husband is enough.
As for Brazil, it was yet another interesting mystery to solve: do Brazilian guys flirt? It seemed like the place where you can parade half naked without attracting a single glance—I always joke that Brazilian men are desensitized. I’m never afraid to be in a crowd of Brazilians because, even in a very minimal outfit, I’ve never been touched inappropriately.
But rest assured, Brazilian men do make moves, including on me since I started speaking decent Portuguese.
They’re just very subtle about it.
For instance, there was the time I kept getting asked for a lighter during Carnival in Cabo Frio. No worries, of course… until I realized most men already had a lighter—it was just a way to start a conversation. I also had interesting discussions about travelling, being a woman, being a foreigner—and interesting invitations.
But “não é não,” and my refusal was always accepted in the kindest, most respectful way possible.
I don’t begrudge guys for trying. Really, I don’t. Flirting is human, and that’s how humans meet—and maybe mate.
But travelling as a woman teaches you to notice patterns fast: who is curious, who is harmless, who is testing a boundary, who will laugh and back off, who won’t, and how men try differently around the world.
Women learn to read them everywhere.
One more cultural skill to master.
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