If only I were a dude.

I expected the weight of eyes. Everyone says the Indians love to stare, and they’re right. But the Indians aren’t the only ones, and I’m starting to get sick of wishing I was a man.

One of the best things about being a man—and no one in their right mind can deny this—is the ability to travel more freely anywhere. Men get away with so much more shit than women; they can do so much more with fewer worries that I will ever be able to manage. I hear it in my friends’ stories of solo bus trips through exciting places like Mexico and the Balkans, and I read it in the books about men showing up and building a life by immediately connecting and trusting the local men. As a woman, you learn to never trust men. Especially while traveling.

Take for example what was probably a perfectly innocent situation. The first flight touched down in Doha, the passengers were shuffled from bus to terminal to bus, and many of us who left Roissy in the morning now found ourselves waiting to leave Doha at night. I was trying to indiscreetly survey my fellow voyagers to India; maybe there was a group I could find, some friends to keep me entertained for the week. There was a charming older couple, but they were French and I was too tired to try. There was a young, uber-hip white guy, but I simply didn’t have the patience. And as I casually turned to continue my hunt, I realized I had suddenly become the prey.

A tall, nerdy Westerner approached from behind the crowd and began speaking with me. One of the most important lessons I learned over the past three months is you never know the interesting perspectives people can share, even if they don’t seem like someone from which you can learn. So I smiled and engaged in his conversation.

“You came from Paris, right?” he asked.

I couldn’t recognize his accent, so I kept it simple: “Yep.”

“Yea, I thought so. I remember seeing you at the airport.”

Creepy.

We made small talk. He was a Romanian. And unnerving. It became clear quickly that he was not going to be my new friend. Plus his breath smelled really badly, and I was really tired. So when he asked me to join him in the back of the plane, I politely declined in favor of my window seat closer to the front.

But after disembarking, I suddenly felt a soft touch on my elbow and turned to see his face. I’m a friendly and physical person for sure, but I don’t like it when strange men touch me, even in the most innocent of gestures. His fingertips dispersed an anger in my skin that shot through my veins to the muscles in my jaw. I tightened my smile, causally pulled away, and tried my best to politely blow him off. Eventually he asked if there was someone waiting for me.

“No.”

“Well,” he smiled, “I have a taxi coming, and we can ask—”

I’m sure he was just trying to be polite, but I clearly wasn’t going to crawl into a cab with him. “Thanks, but I’m sure I’ll be fine. Someone from the hotel is supposed to come get me, and if not, I have their number.” Then while he struggled through security, I went to buy (Zelda-style) Rupees.

I was about to clear the final passport check when once again someone grabbed my elbow. This time it was far less gentle and I was forced to spin around and face him, inhaling the stinkiness of his breath and bearing the brunt of his barracuda eyes. His voice squeaked through his accent: “Look, I don’t think a pretty lady like yourself should be alone in India at 4:00am.”

“Sure. But I’m not sure I’d be better off in the hands of a Romanian stranger.” He may have had a point, but I had one too. He stopped, and I pivoted to walk away.

As if on queue, a man holding a “COMFORT INN: CATHERINE MICHEL” sign appeared to block our path. “Ah, that’s me. Enjoy your stay in Chennai,” I said to him.

“Yea!” he replied a little too eagerly. “Maybe we can hang out tomorrow?”

I froze. My teeth clenched as I looked him over with a mixture of annoyance and admiration. He didn’t have to walk across the crowded parking lot conscious of a thousand eyes weighing down on him. He didn’t have to question my intentions if I accepted his offer, because even if they were impure, his interests would still be served. He didn’t have to wonder if every nice act was laced with hidden expectations. And in moments the cab driver would reveal all the fun and real things to do in this city, where I will constantly fight for such guarded information.

“Well,” I swallowed hard and forced a smile. “You saw the sign. You know where I’m at.”

And I turned to brave the parking lot of men.