urban survival tips for the modern woman

It’s a tough world out there, ladies.

And to help you navigate through whatever concrete jungle your dreams are made of, I have compiled a list of handy advice-nuggets ranging from personal safety, to avoiding the unwanted advances of a male stranger, to mitigating everyday instances of social awkwardness.  The following are tried and tested methods - take them with a grain of salt, however: I’m nobody’s Carrie Bradshaw and have a knack for getting myself in tricky situations, from the violent to the cripplingly uncomfortable. 

Here we go:

Life’s more fun if you only find yourself attractive on weekends.  Okay, so you might have great bone structure, or a nice rack, or long, shiny hair or whatever, and that’s been working out well for you so far, Miss Twenty-Something-Lady-Person.  Good job, good genes. Here’s the thing, though: from Monday to Friday afternoon that shouldn’t matter, and you should act as if the world is just one big ‘Bad Taste’-themed costume party.  Act silly, trip over things, bust a move on the street, wear weird clothes.  Do strange things just because you think it’s funny.  The world needs more women who aren’t afraid to make a fool of themselves in broad daylight.  TODAY YOU ARE THE WEIRDEST LOOKING PERSON IN THE WORLD AND THAT IS AWESOME.  Act accordingly. 

The secret to avoiding getting hit on in undesirable circumstances or bothered during your commute is all about facial expressions and body language. 

If you don’t feel safe on the metro at night because there’s a suspicious guy looking at you, salivating, as if you’re a rotisserie chicken, just fake a facial tick.  Blink a lot, shrug your shoulders ever few seconds, violently scratch your scalp, chew on your arm-hair.  Alternatively, blow your cheeks up with air and then gently slap your face until they deflate.  Either are equally unattractive and will effectively function as a social suit of armor. 

Also, you know those tough-looking guys who walk with their arms stretched out in a noticeable distance to their armpits, as if they have too much upper-body strength that their arms have stopped bending in the right ways?  If you’re ever by yourself at night in a dodgy area and don’t feel safe, walk like that.  Imagine you have a soda can under each armpit, and look really angry (or sad; that’s even more confusing).  You’ll either seem really jacked and no one will want to mess with you, or as if you have a problem with Armpit Chafing - which is very unattractive and possibly contagious.  So you’re good.

Lastly, I’ve observed that I’ve never been bothered while I’m eating on the go, so I usually carry an apple or a cracker in my jacket pocket.  I think it’s because I have a really primal, almost rabid, look on my face when I eat, so people know not to even go there. 

Learn what a drug deal looks like, and get over it.  There is always a time and place for shameless gawking; drug deals are not one of them, no matter how homesick for your college-town/crack-capital-of-the-world Baltimore, Maryland they make you.  If you find yourself by the Fontaine des Innocents in Les Halles at night, for instance, keep walking, use the armpit defense, and avoid making eye-contact with anyone wearing sports-gear. 

Alternatively, however - if you keep an appropriate distance and know the right moment to walk away - street fights (in well-lit areas!) can serve as a relatively safe alternative in the realm of urban street theater.  I was on a run by Place de Clichy once and saw a man and a woman (who were presumably on a date, as it was outside the big movie theater) get into a full-out brawl.  She threw the first punch, he retaliated, she came back with an even greater force.  A man tried to intercede, which changed the dynamics dramatically: while at first it seemed like this Kind Stranger would succeed in breaking up the fight, the former sparring partners then joined forces against the good Samaritan - deriding him for his well-meaning intervention - and started taking turns trying to beat him up, rather than each other.  It was kind of romantic in a weird way, and I had front-row seats, albeit from the other side of the street.

Make friends with the bouncer of at least one nightlife establishment. I don’t go out enough for this to ever happen to me and feel far too awkward when I do, but from what I observe from people much cooler than I, it seems like a very smart thing to do. 

Be nice to homeless people.  You never know when you’re going to get punched in the face. 

Never accidentally give your neighborhood kebab guy Israeli currency.  I did this last week.  He gave me a suspicious look, and when I realized my geopolitical faux pas I tried to cover it by saying, “Oh, ha-ha sorry I didn’t realize I still had my Japanese Yen in my wallet.  Tokyo.  Business…trip.  Technology?  Extra harissa on my fries s’il vous plaît….?” 

Never give your number out to anyone you meet in a bar.  Sure, he may be charming and well-dressed and have his scooter parked outside, but this is never a good idea.  I have only done this once, when I met this French-Moroccan guy we’ll just call “Pants,” at a bar during the World Cup Finale two summers ago.  He seemed cool enough: had a Lenny Kravitz vibe going on, with nice hair and caramel-colored skin, and was a couture tailor, specializing in pants.  After a summer of unprecedented success with men, I figured I was on a winning streak so one date with a stranger wouldn’t do any harm, and the whole pants angle would make for a good story.  I obliged his invitation to a picnic by the Seine with his co-workers - it laid-back and fun enough such that seeing him again seemed like a benign proposition.  However….

Our second date largely consisted of Pants telling me that he wanted to make me his Moroccan queen, coupled with unprompted outbursts of, “YOUR EYES! YOUR LIPS! YOUR HAIR!”  After that I stopped returning his (ten) phone calls and (fifteen) texts (a day), and when we crossed paths one Sunday afternoon in the Marais he tried to run me over on his Vespa. 

Once in a while I’ll meet someone interesting when I’m out with my friends, and he’ll seem attractive and have a nice smile and think my jokes are funny, but then I am taken back to the Pants ordeal, and see the fury in his eyes as he sped towards me on rue Vieille du Temple - falafel balls falling tragically on the ground as I tried to flee the scene - and I suddenly remember my fake boyfriend Jamal, who is a dentistry student in Ohio.  I put my phone away.  He’s a very jealous man.

Don’t shit where you eat.  This is the best advice anyone could ever give you, and it really does behoove you to heed it.  Believe me: I’m the expert on romantic endeavors gone awry, avoiding confrontation, and generally lacking social grace.  Think your co-worker or classmate or bartender at your favorite spot around the corner is cute?  Don’t.  Stop it.  Walk away.  Basta.  Seriously, just…just shut it down right now.  It’s not going to work out, you will embarrass yourself somehow in the aftermath, and then you’re going to have to quit your job or drop out of school or go out of the country if you ever want to get a drink again.  I have several examples from my personal life about such ill-fated entanglements but reliving them makes me want to rip my skin off and live in a white, noiseless box for the rest of my life so I’m just going to ask you to take my word for it. 

When in doubt, yawn.  If you ever don’t know what to say on an elevator or passing by someone you vaguely remember from a Social Event in the halls of your university, just smile and yawn.

They will say, “Oh, you must be tired,” or “Ha-ha, are you tired?” which opens up an opportunity to project yourself as either a Very Hard Worker or a Sociable Young Person - whatever impression you’d like to put forth.  You can reply with something like, “Oh yeah, late in the evening with the young people… last night… man, you know how that goes,” or, “Up late with that paper…exam… books and things.  Intellectual endeavors… Whew!  Smart.  Are you tired from anything?”  The choice is yours. 

That’s all I got for now, friends - it’s Saturday and I’m going to a Very Fancy Gala at the Musée d’Orsay as a Member Of The Press.  Follow me on my twitter for live updates.  I’m going sans-date, not knowing a soul, which means this should be interesting, champagne-fueled, possibly disastrous, and there will be lots to write about for later…

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