April in Paris in the early Seventies. It’s our first time in the city. Its magic makes us feel heady. We’re strolling hand-in-hand down Les Champs-Élysées on a beautiful sunny morning. She is wearing a pair of skimpy hot-pants and a halter-neck, the nipples of her small breasts visible through the flimsy material. Slim and elegant, she looks like a fashion model straight from Carnaby Street in London. As we pass the tables outside the first café, the wolf-whistling begins. It continues all the way down the boulevard, coming from café after café, and even from across the street. She looks at me and smiles. Two rows of small, pearly white teeth. She’s not daunted by the whistling. Just the opposite. The whistles are endorsements. Compliments. Frenchmen are so expressive. It’s what they do, isn’t it?
This wee memoir was prompted by the news that men in France will soon be liable for on-the-spot fines if they are caught wolf-whistling at women.
April in Paris in the early Seventies. It’s our first time in the city. Its magic makes us feel heady. We’re strolling hand-in-hand down Les Champs-Élysées on a beautiful sunny morning. She is wearing a pair of skimpy hot-pants and a halter-neck, the nipples of her small breasts visible through the flimsy material. Slim and elegant, she looks like a fashion model straight from Carnaby Street in London. As we pass the tables outside the first café, the wolf-whistling begins. It continues all the way down the boulevard, coming from café after café, and even from across the street. She looks at me and smiles. Two rows of small, pearly white teeth. She’s not daunted by the whistling. Just the opposite. The whistles are endorsements. Compliments. Frenchmen are so expressive. It’s what they do, isn’t it?
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