Brief Encounter with a Handsome Stranger

Paris, March 2025 in Writing

Over the last few years, my hair has lost some of its youthful lustre. I no longer bother to hide the grey strands that stray over my brow. They appeared in the aftermath of my mother’s tragic death, reminders of irreparable loss. I have learned to love the hair that grows on my body. My heels are gathering dust at the back of my cupboard because I would rather walk the streets of Paris in sensible shoes.

I’ve even already had well-meaning people offer me their seat on public transport. Another aspect of aging is that men no longer approach me when I am out and about. I am too happy and fulfilled to feel much nostalgia for my youth. I also do not miss the predatory eyes I used to sense on me all the time. I can still remember arming myself with indifference whenever I went out, hoping to shield myself from the harassment and unwanted advances that were part of daily life in those days.

I can still remember arming myself with indifference whenever I went out

But let us now fast-forward to last September. I was back in Paris after the summer holidays, when a stranger called out to me. I had crossed the road where the Boulevard Saint-Michel meets the Rue des Écoles, and my eyes had met those of a cyclist waiting for the lights to turn. Sheets of rain were pouring out of the Autumn sky and everything dripped with water.

I saw how sogging wet he was under his helmet and rain poncho and gave him a smile to cheer him up. As an inveterate Parisian cyclist, I could not help putting myself in his shoes for the few seconds our eyes met. He smiled back as I walked past him, shielded from the elements under my large umbrella. The sorry weather can foster spontaneous feelings of empathy between strangers.

The sorry weather can foster spontaneous feelings of empathy between strangers.

A few seconds later, he disappeared from my line of vision. I continued briskly on my way, determined to be on time for an appointment. The incident had already slipped out of my mind when I reached the level of the Sorbonne. As the College de France neared, however, I heard a male voice calling behind me: “Wait! Please!” I turned around and saw it was the cyclist. He was handsome and for the first time, I stopped to look at him. His green bicycle reminded me of the green sports car I used to drive with such delight. He also looked rather smart in his green rain poncho. This was clearly a style-conscious man, and his tastes resonated with mine. I remembered a pair of cable knit fingerless gloves I had purchased once, and the image of my gloved hands on the wheel of that sports car flashed through my mind. Times have changed but I still have the gloves. They’re for cycling now.

He was tall and slim, and his reddish brown hair stood out against all that green. The summer had just ended, and the freckles that covered his face merged into his lingering sun tan. “I know it’s silly of me to come up to you like this, but what about spending some time together and getting to know each other?” His words caught me off-guard – I had put up my armour of indifference a long time ago, thinking it was no longer needed. Nevertheless, I said no.

In a flash, I had punctured the hope that had driven him to speak to me. He started to deflate before my eyes, as he stood there, his hands on the handlebars. Suddenly aware of how soaked through he was, he started to falter. Sensing his disappointment, I realised that the impulse had come from his heart. In order to try and make him feel better, I said: “Thank you but I can’t. I am sorry”. I then went on my way without turning back, and I imagine he did the same on his bike.

This incident happened when I was writing “From Afghanistan to the Vaucluse“. My encounter with the man on the green bicycle had felt like a ray of sunshine at a time when I was exploring the parallels between the twisted expressions of virility inflicted on Gisèle Pelicot and Afghan women. And for that, I am grateful to you, handsome stranger. Thank you for an encounter that did not leave me feeling harassed or reduced to a female body.

And for that, I am grateful to you, handsome stranger.

I wrote this first section of my piece in order to explore more personal reflections, before saving it on my computer almost five months ago. I did not feel ready to share these lines until another incident somehow compelled me to return to them.

It was a freezing January evening and I was crossing the Boulevard Saint-Michel once again, on my way to the cinema this time. The memory of that brief encounter on a rainy Autumn day had long faded from my memory, when another man came up to me. He had an earnest look in his eyes and I stopped to hear him out. He told me how alone he had been all weekend and how much he dreaded having to go through another week of work like that.

His despair seemed genuine, and he too suggested spending some time together and getting to know each other. Let me add, by the way, that I was rather taken aback to find myself repeating the same experience just a few months later. This time, though, I took care to be more sympathetic, even as I explained to him that I was not available. He became emotional as I spoke, and I ended up trying to comfort him with a hug. Keen not to give him any false hopes after this spontaneous embrace, I declined his offer to give me his number and left for the cinema.

I was struck by the parallels between these two encounters, just a few months apart, at exactly the same crossing on the Boulevard Saint-Michel. It was up to me to decide what to make of this coincidence, and I chose to see it as a sign that I should publish this piece.

As an eco-feminist, I constantly find myself pondering masculinist and patriarchal dynamics. Were these two strangers the same men who harassed me when I was a young Danish woman in Paris? Was it the way I looked in my youth that aroused so much bad behaviour? If so, how can men reconcile the different sides of their personality? Or is it that different groups of men have different codes of seduction? That while some follow their hearts, others are unable to rise above baser instincts when they see a woman? Are harassers happy? Are their lives fulfilling? Do they not somehow sense that they are betraying their own deeper humanity? How much satisfaction do they really derive from their attempts to dominate women?

As an eco-feminist, I constantly find myself pondering masculinist and patriarchal dynamics.

Why is it that when I was young, the men who approached me on the streets never seemed sincere? How many times have I travelled on a packed underground train at rush hour, only to have some man rub his genitalia against me, masturbate in public, or come up to me with lines that seemed straight out of a pornographic film.

Why is it that when I was young, the men who approached me on the streets never seemed sincere?

Thirty years on, the Parisian woman that I have become no longer look like that young Danish woman. The #MeToo movement has also had a massive global impact, raising awareness of sexual harassment among women, but also among finer men. Despite a late start, I am now well on my way to achieving freedom from the dictates of the patriarchy and the codes of femininity. My body may be aging, but it gives me joy to feel that I am getting closer to my true self, as I allow my appearance and clothes to reflect my values and personality.

I am now well on my way to achieving freedom from the dictates of the patriarchy

The young Danish woman I once was would have loved to be able to walk around Paris without feeling the eyes of men on her. My recent chance encounters on the Boulevard Saint-Michel, though, were positive experiences, and I now know not to assume that I will be harassed when a strange man walks up to me. When men choose sincerity over patriarchal or masculinist attitudes, such brief encounters can even lead to fond memories. I know that this is something that at least two Boulevard Saint-Michel regulars understand.