Les dragueurs

Miroslav is a little different
from the French guys.

After spending seven weeks in France, I feel there's something that must be said about French men: They are dragueurs! WordReference translates this to "pick-up artist; womanizer; ladies man," but let's be honest: when they're trying to flirt with a couple of American interns, it doesn't really work.

We've gotten used to stares as we walk down the street--everyone stares at us. I guess it's not impolite like it is in the U.S., because all sorts of people train their eyes on us as we walk to work each morning. (Is is because I'm so blonde? Is it because they think we're sister missionaries? Who knows.) The men, though, are much bolder than this. They don't whistle like construction men, but they call out as we pass from their seats in front of cafés and on park benches. We ignore them and keep walking.

Sometimes they're not so easy to avoid, though. For instance, there's a fast food place right next to our apartment building, and the guys who work there are always doing what-not when we walk past or if we come in to order. They especially try to talk to us in English. "Five minutes," one of them said once when I had finished ordering. As if that's gonna make me like him more, or be more patient for my chicken nuggets. And before we leave, they're sure to add a "See you later!" in their French accents.

It's less often (luckily) that it gets worse than that. While we were walking around lost in Marseille, for instance, one guy asked us if we wanted to go get a hot chocolate with him. Pretty direct, huh? We were just walking past and he asked us out! "Non, merci," and we kept going. That same day after we took the train home, we were on our way back to our apartment when we passed a trio of dudes. One of them leaned over as I hurried along and whispered who-knows-what in my ear (really, I didn't hear; I was trying to get out of there). I cringed and sped up a couple steps to tell Mary what had just happened. We were in the middle of the city, out in the open, not even in a sketchy part of town. I found it quite bizarre.

Let not these stereotypical instances, however, ruin your taste for foreign men. Not all French guys are like this, obviously. (Even the fast food workers are at least nice to us.) I came to very much love and appreciate the men in the Toulon ward, for example. They smiled and shook our hands and asked how we were doing with sincerity. They helped us when we needed something and welcomed us into their homes. I felt protected; I felt like I could rely on them; I felt the Spirit with them.

The difference is really intention. Those guys on the streets are just trying to get our attention and flirt; the men in our ward were trying to be kind. And that is what we should be looking for in a man, no matter where we are in the world.