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Travel Advisor
Well trained
Our travel expert offers advice on rolling through some European hot spots, plus information on cruising Alaska and Germany's Passion Play 2000.
By Donald D. Groff
[12/02/99]

"Would God forgive Lenin?"
In a lonely tower above the mean streets of Krasnoyarsk, a wanderer encounters the fervent heart of Russia's abiding faith.
By Jeffrey Tayler
[12/01/99]

Feasting on the island everyone loves to hate
Don't criticize Singapore until you've tried the kaya at the Chin Mee Chin.
By Jamie James
[11/30/99]

Into the belly of the earth
A cave in southwest France illuminates some of life's deeper secrets.
By Beth Kephart
[11/29/99]

Thanksgiving: A personal history
From the mythic Midwest of my childhood to the mesmerizing Chicago of later years, this holiday has always evoked a place.
By Jennifer New
[11/24/99]

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By Tanya Shaffer

Dec. 3, 1999 | The big problem with being a solo female traveler is that every horny Tom, Dick and Kwesi gloms onto you like a blood-hungry tick and won't let go. "Vous êtes seule?" they ask -- "You're alone?" -- and then, with growing excitement, "Vous êtes Americaine?" There's an instantly recognizable look to the eyes of men who are about to give you a sleazy come-on -- a hooded, dozy look intended to draw you in with the promise of candles, stringed instruments, expanding time, expansive beds.

Far more annoying than the men's incessant overtures, however, is the inexplicable fact that I feel guilty when I reject them. I remember an incident years ago in Baden-Baden, when an Italian guy I had met at the youth hostel wanted to go hiking with me. I said no, because he was already getting touchy-feely, and I knew I'd be fighting off his advances before we rounded the block. He reproached me with, "You must take risks when you are in a foreign country. Otherwise you miss it all."

Clearly this feeble attempt at persuasion was a garden-variety example of the depths the male species can sink to in its tireless quest to self-perpetuate. We know this, right? And yet, in spite of this knowledge, in spite of years of feminist education (well, not so many years -- I was only 19 at the time), I tormented myself for days, wondering whether I was cheating myself out of too much life.

In another instance, a Swedish man whom I'd rebuffed asked me why I was creating artificial barriers between body and mind. We liked each other, why shouldn't we make love? And although I knew he was a New Age clone whose recycled arguments went all the way back to John Donne and "The Flea," I had to endure the nattering of my own mind for days, wondering whether there was something wrong with me, whether I was an ice empress, incapable of passion.

These things, and more, make a shaved head and robes seem like blessed relief.

But anyway. After nearly seven months of solo travel through Europe, Morocco and West Africa, I was convinced that there was no tactic known to the Y-chromosome that could surprise me. Then I met Jimmy Brahima.

"You are very interesting," he told me after less than five minutes' acquaintance. "Très, très interessante. Please, can I take you to bed?"

"No!" I shouted, furious and bored and disgusted. "No no no no no!"

We were on a darkened street behind the stadium in Bobo Dioulasso, Burkina Faso. I'd arrived that day from the capital city of Ouagadougou, after a long bumpy ride in a packed minivan. My plan was to stay the night, visit Bobo's famous mosque, then move on to Mali. Since I was always pushing myself to maximize my cultural experience, I'd gone to the stadium to see a youth choir concert, but there was no concert. Tired, headachy and near the breaking point, I'd been walking around in circles for almost an hour, trying to find the way back to a hotel whose name I'd forgotten. Along the way this irritating companion had attached himself to me, like something unseemly sticking to my shoe.

"Shhhh ..." he looked around, embarrassed, but there was no one to hear. He leaned in for a kiss. I sidestepped him so quickly he almost fell.

"Don't touch me," I said between gritted teeth. I was about to follow it up with a command to get the hell out of here, when he startled me by suddenly backing up about 10 yards. He did it so quickly, bouncing backwards in tiny steps like Charlie Chaplin, that I giggled with surprise.

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