At 21, with just $600 in my pocket and the full wind of naïve bravado at my back, I moved to London alone. This dumb fearlessness served me quite well in London, but not without cost. London aged me, taught me fear, and gave shape to my own limitations in a way I’ve been working to undo ever since.
One night, about 11 pm, I was walking the 2 ½ miles from SoHo back to the hotel in Paddington where I lived and worked, when I was approached by an elderly man. I walked the same route several times a week, and by then I knew to be alert and careful: walk purposefully, head up, never make eye contact. Never, ever smile at strangers. Aside from the plentiful homeless, no one ever said a word to me on the street. I was justifiably leery when the man stopped me, but he only handed me a bloom – just the bloom – of a small red carnation and said “Cheer up, love, night’s still young.” Then he smiled and continued on his way. I cradled that flower in my hand all the way back to my tiny room. I hoped it would live for a while, but you know it didn’t.
As soon as the man spoke to me, I realized I’d been walking about London for months with a fierce, cold expression on my face. This ferocity ran so counter to my ordinary cheerful, friendly nature that it disturbed me. I had to consider if my love of London was really worth such a sacrifice.
This transformation began as soon as I arrived in London. Fresh off the airplane, I settled into a window seat on the Tube with my considerable luggage flowered around me. I donned my earphones and cued up my portable CD player (cutting edge technology in 1994.) A man took the seat across from me. As he sat down, I looked up and smiled – just a polite “hello” smile. He smiled back, and I looked out the window.
A moment later, he tapped my arm and smiled at me again – a huge, inviting grin. I smiled weakly, nodded, and pointedly went back to looking out the window. A few minutes later he tapped me yet again and smiled. This time I didn’t respond, but I knew he was staring at me, grinning like an idiot. I hoped he would get off the train soon. Then he touched my knee. I frowned and shoved his hand away.
I resigned myself to hauling my luggage off at the next stop to wait for the next train. When we slowed for the station, I stood up, but he stood too. Then he leaned down and kissed my cheek. I was too astonished to react. I just stood there, horrified, frozen. Finally, another man realized what was happening. He shouted “Hey!” and loverboy dashed off. This was the moment I realized I might have gotten in over my head.
You would think I’d have learned my lesson after that, but I didn’t. All over London, men reacted very differently to me than any American man ever had. While, thank God, no one else ever touched me, I’m not used to drawing strangers’ attention, and it took me far too long to figure out what I was doing wrong. I was smiling at strangers.
Perhaps I overcompensated then, disconnecting from others completely in exchange for an imagined invisibility. The old man made me realize I wasn’t invisible at all – just afraid and angry: angry at myself for having been naïve, angry at the world for being dangerous for women. I wanted independence so badly that I fooled myself into believing I was invincible, and when I realized that wasn’t true, I mourned.
I still miss my stupid moxie, the beautiful illusion that I could do anything at all – the same necessary, optimistic lie we still teach our daughters. I would get on that plane to London again in a heartbeat, but if I did so now, I would have to take my fear with me. Heavy luggage indeed.
Painting by John Singer Sargent
There’s more by Renee Cohn at 2000Irises.
Renee this is a well-written and painfully truthful post. I too am bothered by the fact that a woman’s friendliness is often misconstrued as a come-on. Had I known this in my 20′s and 30′s, I could have avoided a large handful of unfortunate incidences. Still, I prefer to smile at strangers…I just do so now with a good bit of well-disguised caution, and the knowledge that being much older means my friendliness is usually taken at face value, versus as some mysterious sexual currency.
I agree that at different ages and stages in our lives, a smile can be interpreted in many different ways, although it is a shame that certain people make certain ASSumptions based on a smile. I often feel like I unfriendly and that I should say hello and smile more often, but usually in my own town and neighborhood. Plus, there are different cultural norms in every country, state and city.
Will you please write a guidebook regarding the different cultural norms, as related to women specifically?
Thank you for checking the piece out, ladies. I really appreciate your comments.
I’m originally from upstate New York, which is a relatively friendly place, but I now live in Northwest Indiana — which is something like living in Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood, minus the public transportation. Compared with NY, the Midwest is a stinkin’ love-fest, and I do.not.love.everyone. Not even close. But unless someone really, really makes me angry, I keep that smile on my face. (I find sarcasm helps though.)
I was prepared for some cultural differences in England, but it never occurred to me that being friendly would get me into trouble. I went back to London in 2001, and by then I was married and almost 30 and not in great shape, but I swear to God, a random guy at the curry takeout asked me out for a drink my first night there. By then I just laughed — here we go again! A part of me was flattered, of course, but being older, I could more easily modulate between toning down the Rudolph’s-nose glare of my Midwest grin and turning into a total prune-face.
Also, I took cabs — no more night-time prowls. *Please girls, DO NOT try this at home or anywhere else.*
Too many emotions for me to capture in one small comment. Well told and amen.
Thank you Miss Robin!