I was so shocked when I looked up that I snapped my head around and followed him with an icy stare until he left my field of vision. He almost had the humility to look ashamed. Since I arrived in Nicaragua, I have been harassed by locals.
By what I presume are expats. In one weekend in Granada, I did not walk a block without being cat called and did not eat dinner in public without brushing off relentless and unwanted advances. I felt tired, too soon, just one week into a four month trip. Those of you who follow me on Instagram may have seen my call for advice on the topic , and followed along on the extremely interesting conversation that grew from it.
I have traveled quite a bit in Latin America, to six countries over about seven cumulative months in the region. Being truly on my own again is eye opening. I know, in a way, that I could make life easier by aligning myself with other backpackers — doing my sightseeing with them, eating with them, being in transit with them. But I came here, in part, to enjoy my own company. I want to take pictures of old churches in solitude. I want to read quietly while I eat my salad.
I want to join up with other travelers when I want to, not because I feel I need to. In a way, I think my travels in Southeast Asia have shielded me from what a reality this is in so many parts of the world.
I certainly experience my fair share of street harassment back home in Brooklyn, where I almost developed an amused attitude to it. Sure dude, I look sooooo super sexy coming home from the gym with an armful of toilet paper I just picked up at the bodega.
