Sometimes, I wish I was a man

A normal day in my life hiding from a creep in H&M

It’s a humid August day in Athens. I’ve always envied women who can stand wearing long dresses on a hot summer day because they look chic as fuck, but I can never bring myself to actually wear one because a) too much fabric, b) a toddler climbing on me, making me sweat even more, and c) they look good on every feminine being besides me. That’s why, on this hot Wednesday, I decide to go for jean shorts and a white top. To be fair, everyone could totally see my nipples, but it’s 2024, and I think we’ve come to a mutual agreement that it’s socially acceptable to not wear a bra—at least, that’s what I thought.

My daughter and I decide to spend the last day of trip to Greece bopping around Athens. Once we’ve stuffed ourselves with every bit of Greek food we could pick up along the way, I decide to top off our culinary day with the ultimate toddler treat: ice cream. I remember this fancy-looking ice cream shop from last year, selling flavors like Mars bar and Black Forest Cake, so we venture to the shop.

When we approach the ice cream bar, the owner is busy standing in the corner, eating his own ice cream. The sight of an ice cream shop owner eating his own product and deliberately ignoring customers makes me giggle a little because it’s so typically Mediterranean, and I love that people here give zero fucks about etiquette. Maybe this man, who’s at least 40 years older than me, took this gesture as a flirt, or maybe he saw my nipples, or maybe I reminded him of a woman in a porn he once watched, or of an ex fling, or all of the above, but he got VERY friendly with me.

After he handed me only one waffle, even though I had ordered two, he said, “Sorry, I forgot because you b l e w m e a w a y.” Ew. I proceed to do what I always do whenever I have to deal with sexual comments from strangers men: I brush it off with a “haha” and an uncomfortable giggle. I always think it’s better to pretend I don’t understand what’s going on than to make a big deal out of it. Plus, men in the Mediterranean tend to be more charming and flirty than the average man in Germany or the US, so really, it’s no big deal (or am I just used to it?)

I grab the second ice cream, hand it to my daughter, and sit down in front of the shop to indulge in a sugar rush while watching around 30 people next to us lining up for ‘the best souvlaki in town’.

Two women, who apparently grew tired of standing in the souvlaki line and decided to get ice cream instead, approach the counter. Both are wearing long dresses and headscarves, looking like absolute goddesses—no nipples in sight. Since we’re sitting about a meter away from the counter, I inevitably watch them order their portion of fancy ice cream, and I can’t wrap my head around what’s happening.

The same man who had just been overly friendly, smiley, and flirty with me did a complete 180-degree character switch and suddenly became the rudest ice cream server ever. To be clear, the ladies ordering the ice cream aren’t the kind of annoying customers who want to try five different flavors before eventually deciding to go to another shop; they knew what they wanted and told him politely.

He didn’t smile at them once, nor did he try flirting with them, nor did he tell them they ‘blew him away’. I even caught him rolling his eyes at one point, which led me to believe that his earlier “kindness” wasn’t just typical Mediterranean charm. Instead, it had to be because he saw me as a sex object—and that he was actually just a rude asshole.

Eventually, we move on from rude ice cream man to catch our metro.

After a few minutes in the packed train, crammed with everyone who's visited Athens today and is now heading home, I notice a guy staring at me like he’s looking at the original painting of Mona Lisa. Unlike ice cream man, this guy seems to be at least in my age range and somewhat decent-looking, so I feel flattered that men still find me cute, despite handling the massive post-sugar-rush meltdown of my daughter, and don’t think too much about it.

After some avid Athens visitors finally get off the train, he seizes the opportunity to take the closest seat possible and continues the staring contest. I try not to participate, which is easy because I’m still working on calming down my daughter, but occasionally, I’d turn around to find him deadass staring into my eyes and smiling at me. It wasn’t a creepy smile, but he officially started giving me weird vibes, and I couldn’t tell if he was simply too shy to talk to me or if he was a serial killer. I prayed that he would get off at a station before me to avoid further confrontation, but as fate would have it, he gets off at the same station we do. Spoiler: From here, it only gets weirder.

Metro guy exits the train faster than us but ends up waiting until we reach the escalator (first weird move because he could’ve just taken the damn escalator like everybody else), so I’m standing right in front of him, still feeling his stare on my back. The escalator ends, and I head for the elevator. He continues up the stairs, and I’m relieved to have finally lost him, but guess who’s standing in front of the elevator when I come out—still staring at me. I must have looked like a deer caught in the crosshairs because I was genuinely surprised and now officially creeped out by this guy. But it gets worse.

I have to navigate my way to the hotel using Google Maps, so I pause for a minute, dabbling on my phone, hoping he would simply keep moving like a normal person would but he’s not leaving my side, still staring, still not saying a word. I’m avoiding eye contact and pretend he hasn’t been staring at me for the past 20 minutes and then followed me all the way outside the station. After I figured out our way to the hotel, I start walking, and guess what he does? He starts walking too, but in an attempt to not be an obvious creep, he walks a bit faster than me. We walk down this long road—him occasionally staring back at me, walking slightly faster than me and me pretending I’m not aware of what’s going on, while my mind is busy figuring out how to escape this situation that’s starting to feel dangerous as it was already dark and I would soon have to enter an even darker side street.

I see an opportunity when a bright red H&M sign appears in front of me like a door to heaven. I slip inside without looking back, pretending to be genuinely interested in shopping fall fashion five minutes before the shop’s closing time. When I reach a corner that isn’t visible from outside, I slowly look around and, luckily, don’t see him. I hide in the store until they’re about to lock the doors and even contemplate telling the staff that either a shy guy or a serial killer might be waiting for me outside. I decide it’s silly and that, most likely, he wouldn’t still be waiting outside the store for me.

Luckily, he wasn’t waiting for me.

However, I spent the remaining 15 minutes walk home in fear, constantly looking over my back to see if he’s not following me and even when I reached my room, I was afraid he would’ve secretly followed me until my hotel and pretends he’s my husband to find out my room number and break in. (I listened to a true crime podcast for a while and it really did something to me.)

This is why sometimes, I just really wish I was a man — without the constant worry that my choices—whether it's my outfit, my route home, or even my decision to be alone—might get perceived as an invitation to harass me. Men don’t usually have to think twice about these things, and I sometimes envy that freedom. I’m exhausted from always having to be on high alert and from maintaining a mental checklist of safety precautions whenever I’m out. Whether it’s pretending to be on a phone call with a friend, switching sides of the street, hiding in an H&M, avoiding less populated areas, or feeling the need to share my location with my besties—these are things I wish I didn’t have to do. Don’t get me wrong—I ADORE being a woman. I love girlhood, and I wouldn’t actually want to be a man. It’s just that sometimes I long for the peace of mind that comes with not constantly looking over my shoulder, not worrying about whether a guy is just being nice or planning to kidnap me, and most certainly not having to worry about whether tiny everyday choices might put me in danger.