Ni Hao, Ni Hao
Walking along city streets in New York City, a young woman alone will be accosted by appreciative if not prying eyes and the occasional grunt of approval. When the man dares speak, you will hear any range of salutations, such as:
"Sexy!" (in the declarative, rather than the nominative)
"You go the gym a lot?"
"Can I talk to you for a second?"
"Hey Mama"
"Hello Asia"
"Hello Korea, Japan"
Most often you will hear these towards the direction of south-by-south-west (your blind spot), since man in question is stationary (sitting on a stoop, loitering outside the bodega, riding in slow circles on his bike in front of a group of boys on the stoop or a group of boys outside the bodega) and you are moving (being productive, trying to achieve, having a place to go, people to assist, and a future to secure). If said man has been in the approach himself moving at a constant velocity, he would have decelerated in order to appreciate you in totality (front-view and back) before making his declarative assessment. So, usually, you hear these things in passing.
With relative frequency you will hear a more musky, inviting voice tell you "God bless you", either from the old and/or pious, usually accompanied by a gentle shaking or rocking of the head in as much wonderment and awe as I imagine myself reserving for the Grand Canyon.
And, depending on your neighbourhood, you may actually be approached with a run and a wave, almost as if you were a taxi cab, much as if the urgency of the appeal will make you stop and give him the time of day. Unfortunately this is often the case, since it is an appeal to your basic humanity (does he need help? did I drop something? no shit, is this guy going to get himself run over?).
"Hey, where are you from?"
(I am looking for coconut milk, this guy followed me into the store)
"You from, what, Thailand?"
(I have not made eye contact) "No."
"Vietnam?"
"No."
"Korea?"
"No." (why do they have preserved olives and capers and yet no coconut milk?)
"Japan?"
"No."
"China?"
(I accrue good karma for the sake of finding my coconut milk, which is actually so I can complete the dessert I have already half made for my date later that night with Barry--I look him in the eye, and smile. I've been through this shelf already!)
"C'mon, where you from?"
(My Asian Mystery is sending ninja daggers through his flat-flapped cap and into his frontal cortex: I AM NOT INTERESTED)
"Singapore."
"Oh, wow, Singapore, huh ... "
Etc. He will ask me my name. I will sigh. I will tell him. He will lean his torso backward, tilted, while his arm lightly pokes my shoulder when he propositions me with an invitation to "can I see you again". I will smile. I will say no. He will ask why. He will ask me if I'm married. I will continue my hunt for dessert ingredients. I am not even paying half a mind.
This is not an isolated incident, for me or any woman of any race. Some have it worse. Some have it dirtier. Some have it with gleaming, rose-tinted reverence for the Zen Buddha Jasmine Yangtze aura they share with the stock-photoed women in the back of the Village Voice.
And frankly, I like it. Sometimes. It's affirming. It's challenging. It's a game. It's non-invasive. It's Brooklyn. It's Manhattan. It's b-boys of the 70s going flip and ape-shit over Bruce Lee movies when Canal Street was still as mixed as Lower East Side is now and Chinatown's gangs were Latin and Black too. This much I know from the weird white guy who likes to narrate this part of history in the Chinese bakery on the corner of Canal and Center Streets and which sells a scallion roll for only 60 cents.
I raise all this in order to raise how it feels different to be a young Asian woman alone here in Budapest and Vienna so far. I'm sorry, but they're Germanic. This area is the one that is fueling the sex trade and mail-order-bride industries. And if we had children, they wouldn't even have crimped hair or caramel skin. And there is always always the question of pure form, which should emphasize graceful and efficient execution (is she into men? is she into me? will she give me a smile? will she give me a number? can i at least watch her walk away and break even in effort-reward?), rather than knee-jerk mental ball-scratching (if I yell at her in what I know of her native tongue maybe she will uh Hey! Ni hao! Ni hao! Shay shay! Hallo!).
Because they don't say much, it's actually harder to tell whether or not to be on your guard. Because one assumes a general Viennese prejudice, it's unclear if the isolated and very, very odd salutation you do get directly are candidly respectful or shielding some deeper contempt. Because the men here who holler are old and wrinkled and have dirt beneath their fingernails and you know would have tickets to Phuket in a heartbeat if only they got enough on their unemployment. And this is all within the central districts of town. Mike lives up in the 22nd and talks about how the prostitutes on his walk home make fun of his gait and cackle and holler.
One thousand and twenty-four. That took a little over an hour, including research.
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