One of my favorite corners of Granada.

Spain’s got a more relaxed take on what counts as sexual harassment. Catcalls are as common as cigarette smoke there (which one is more unpleasant?), and sometimes wearing heels out is more uncomfortable due to the ensuing comments than the physical pain. (I’ve even received catcalls from women as I’ve passed by, which is not to illustrate that I was looking particularly well-groomed that day but rather that anything goes.) Ninety-five percent of the time you want to bury your face or shout at these hasslers, “You misogynist pig! In the U.S. you could be sued!” But then there’s that five percent, usually on those mornings when you return from the discoteca at 8 a.m. with beer on your dress and hair that’s less than prom-day perfect, when you still get an “ehhh, guapa!” (hey, pretty girl) and the only reaction that comes to mind is, “Bless his heart.”

About The Author

Jenny

Jenny Marshall studied Language, Culture, and Society at the University of California Santa Barbara, and now teaches English in Spain. Here she writes about the intersection of language and culture, and lives a life translated by travel.