When I lived in Philadelphia, I was once in a train crash. I was seated on board a stationary local train at 30th Street station when the express train drove into us. It wasn't moving fast and no one was hurt, but we all felt the impact. Moments later, we were informed that what had occurred was not a train crash, but rather an "accidental coupling"; the impact had caused the express to attach itself to our train. Cue much amusement for the passengers as we explored the possibilities of SEPTA's suggestive description of our predicament.
I have just experienced another unexpected coupling on rails, this time an unsuccessful one, mercifully. I am on my old friend the EC Polonia, which I caught at the ungodly hour of 6.45 in order to be back for a performance in Prague this evening. As a thank you for my professional diligence, which meant leaving Warsaw – and Mr P – before I am usually awake on a weekday, let alone on a Sunday, I have had the pleasure of sexual overtures from the deeply misguided young man sitting across from me in the carriage. Did he think that because a man put my bags on the train and kissed me goodbye that I would be lonely and in need of some comfort? Did he think I have a lover in every city on the EC Polonia route and would now like one for the between-cities bit as well? Did he think that the Heineken he offered me (mind you, it was about 7.30am at the time) would change my mind? Whatever his intentions, it was deeply unpleasant and has left me terrified to decamp to the loo or dining car, lest he slip date rape drug into my water bottle or rifle through my carryon. Unhappily, he has also fallen asleep, stretched out full length across three seats, which has thus far deterred any neutralizing third parties from joining our carriage and diffusing the situation. I have never been in such a hurry to get to Ostrava!
I had intended to write about the fab nightlife in Warsaw – I've been saying for years that I want to open a club whose playlist will be equally influenced by Jack White and Edith Piaf and finally found such a place this weekend! – but I'm feeling so disheartened – not disgusted so much as a flummoxed and oddly depressed – by my travelling companion that I need to address the topic of such behaviour. How? Why? What on earth did he – and all who behave that way – think was going to happen?
I've become more aware – and wary – of unwelcome advances since being back in Prague. I think there are a few reasons for this, which have more to do with me than the perpetrators. For one thing, in London I rarely went out on my own at night – I was always either with friends or Mr P – and if I did I was home before the tubes stopped running. I lived in a neighbourhood where no one bothers you unless you have lived there for most, if not all, of your life and are therefore implicated in one kind of urban turf war or another. I was largely invisible there, while on the tube I was protected by the unwritten rules of Transport for London, which forbid eye contact with strangers, let alone conversation, therefore necessitating the devotion of numerous column inches in Metro and The Evening Standard to "I looked at you for ten seconds between Bond Street and Green Park"-type messages. I did get the odd whistle or "give us a smile, love" from builders engaged on various projects in my neighbourhood, but these days I can think back on their casual objectification of my person with mild nostalgia, since they never invaded my personal space or tried shamelessly to look up my skirt when I stopped to tie my shoe, two of my least savoury experiences in the last month.
I'm not going to go on some sort of horrible anti-men rant here, or debate which countries' lotharios are the most brazen. I like the Czech Republic's healthy, non-judgemental attitude to sexuality and the body. It makes for good cultural products and allows women of all ages to tan topless in a family environment, or enjoy a sauna sans bathing suit, activities which would be interpreted much more sexually in the US and UK. I also like clothes, I like to look interesting and, while attracting men is not my motivation, I accept that unsolicited – and unwelcome – attention is bound to come to all women at one time or another. I won't deny, either, that the occasional street compliment can occasionally boost the ego. I remember the first one I received – I was college shopping in New York City and was catcalled by a group of French waiters on a smoke break. I was eighteen and delighted, my father, who was accompanying me, less so. One of my favourite sartorial accolades came from another French waiter, this time in Paris, who declared my ensemble "formidable!" and rushed to my aid with an ice cube and boiling water when I dripped some vinaigrette on a cream silk blouse. He was sweet and it made me feel fabulous. I will remember it fondly when I'm a nice old woman.
What bothers me most are the moments when my gender – and age, as I suspect this will become a less frequent occurrence with time - seem to render me incapable of securing moments of quiet and reflection when I desire them. Like on a train. Or perhaps a bridge. I live quite close to the river in Prague and my walk home often takes me across a bridge. During the day it's full of car and tram traffic, but at night it is peaceful and lovely and sometimes I would like to stop and gaze out at the water for awhile. I don't do this, however, since the last time I tried, two different men interpreted my behaviour as an invitation to pick me up. I don't know the solution to this, apart from wearing a hat like this. But I wish it didn't occur.
Happily for my personal well-being and sanity, I have no more solo train journeys planned for the foreseeable future and will be spending the next three weeks in Prague. I'm looking forward to a bit of time in one place and the chance to write about adventures not taking place on rails.
PS – I wrote this on Sunday, but didn't get round to posting it until today, when I heard a relevant report on Radio 4's Woman's Hour about the London Anti-Street Harassment Campaign. The movement's founder says it's meant to empower women and eradicate street harassment. A male commentator thought that the campaign implies that women are weak and unable to handle unwelcome attention and said attempts to curb men's comments amounts to the policing of thought. What do you think? Is a "hey, baby" or "look at the legs on that!" in the same league as ethnic and religious slurs, or do we just need to toughen up and get over it?
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