It’s easy to see how so many women are seduced into coming to this city. Promises of the tall, dark and handsome; tango by moonlight, the legendary Latin swooning – ohhh que linda! they whisper, breath swishing past necks, fingers brushing against palms. Te amo, te amo! you hear them calling after you, as you giggle and click down the sidewalk in your pretty little heels.

Oh, it’s all very romantic, in a Givenchy perfume ad kind of way. Off-camera, however, it’s not all sexy scandal and sweet nothings. I’d say it’s more like “for the love of God, leave me alone, I just want to buy some toilet paper.”

They’re swoon-y alright. They’re also bold, arrogant and very, very rarely poster boys for the Latin Lover Association. In fact, I have been lucky enough to catch the attention of a wide array of blue-collar, middle aged men and greasy young guys on street corners, in passing cars, standing in shop doorways, in the subway, in the park, in the supermarket and basically anywhere I happen to be that is not inside my apartment.

It’s much like that classic scenario – the cute girl passes by the construction site, much to the audible pleasure of the workers. Except that here, the whole city is a construction site.

Now before I continue, I should make clear that I feel perfectly safe as a young woman here in Buenos Aires. Certainly there are walks I prefer not to take by myself, but on the whole I have never felt threatened or fearful for my safety. 

I’ve been fairly oblivious to the untoward intentions of men, but having my head in the clouds in this city meant I was able to walk the streets blissfully unaware of the constant smoochy-smoochies and come-ons emanating from doorways and passing businessmen.

It wore off, though, as I began paying attention to more than the pretty architecture and springtime blooms. I began hearing the cabbies as I crossed in front of their cars. That precious song of ohhhh, que linda grumbling out of rotund bellies, past cheap cigarettes and yellow teeth. The kissing sounds from store owners in their doorways, followed by words I am only too glad not to know.

Most of these advances can be shrugged off, laughed about later or forgotten with a turn down the corner. Others, I must admit, can leave more lasting, irritating impressions.

Out for a stroll, clad in jeans, flip-flops, and double-layered tank tops that any cookies-after-school mom would approve of, I caught the attention of a pair of men from a block away. For the entire walk toward them, they stared, commented to each other, smiled. Growing desperate for any direction to look in other than straight ahead, I tried to admire the trees, the cars to my right, the houses across the street, my bottle of soda, anything to avoid accidentally engaging them.

As I passed in front of them, at that point stone-faced and angry that they had derailed my pleasant walk, they let slip what commentary they felt appropriate for the situation and continued until I was clear onto the next block.

That was an extreme case, but it definitely ingrained in me an appreciation for the oft-condemned shyness of American boys.

What is completely perplexing is what they expect out of it. There is no question that the men here know their glowing reputation abroad – both for looks and smooth moves. But having witnessed neither, it all becomes something of a joke – especially when they bother to actually talk to you.

For whatever reason, shop attendants in particular love to dig for praise from foreign girls. The minute they figure out that you’re not from here, they will deliver two questions in broken English: Where are you from, and do you like of the men here? The look on their faces is all the same: “Oh man, she’s about to talk about how outrageously sexy we all are! She’s ripe for the seducing!”

What to do with such loaded questions? I usually just shrug, swallowing my giggles while showing my total disinterest, watching their little lights fizzle out and shoulders hunch as confusion sets in. A minute will pass while they try to process this rogue response, and then the best part comes: they laugh, slick back their hair, and chalk it all up to a glitch in translation.

Monica Cavanaugh can be contacted at monica.cavanaugh@gmail.com. A blog about her trip can be found at remarksenroute.blogspot.com