Piropos

"Hola linda." "Ay, muy bien." "Mmm vení acá." Phrases like these, often accompanied by a spit-filled kissing noise, have become part of the soundtrack of my daily life. The piropo - a compliment given by a man to a woman on the street - is an Argentinian institution (although certainly not unique to this country). When I first arrived, the female staff of my program as well as my host mom immediately warned me about piropos, having seen the reactions of countless fearful American females. Don't be afraid, they urged me. Piropos are part of our culture. Take them as a genuine compliment, don't show any reaction, and you will be fine.

In my first months here, I followed their advice with vigilance. Sometimes, the piropos were sweet. After selling me my subway ticket, a middle-aged man told me, "you are very beautiful," and then continued his work without hope or expectation. Another man stepped off the sidewalk, took off his hat and bowed as I passed, saying in English, "welcome to my country beautiful lady." Other times, the piropos contained more stomach-turning lipsmacking and rapacious eye searches than old-fashioned gallantry. But in these cases, I avoided eye contact, kept walking, and shrugged to myself: just a part of being in Argentina.

In October, my opinion changed. I was up north in Jujuy, wandering through a mountainside village with a female friend, when a car full of men slowed down for the stop sign next to us. I unconsciously braced myself for what was coming, directing my gaze far ahead, tightening my muscles, checking that my shirt hadn't slipped down and that my shorts hadn't slipped up. The man in the driver's seat turned to us purposefully while his friends watched. "Buenos días," he said.

Until that interaction, I didn't realize how accustomed I had become to my new relationship with unknown males. I no longer considered the possibility of a pleasant interaction on equal terms. And all the while, I realized, this was the civil way Argentinian men treated one another, while all I could do was try to disappear in their presence. I'm not sure if the exchange in Jujuy was the result of different social mores in that region or just a particularly nice man. Either way, I now view piropos with indignance. Many girls I know like them, but I long for the day when I can walk down the street and play an active role in my interactions. I want to dress comfortably for the sweltering summer weather, and not feel uncomfortable as a result. I want to be able to smile at strangers. I still do as I was told when I arrived - I do not fear piropos, and I ignore them with success. Sometimes, if I'm in the right mood, an artful piropo still brightens my day. But piropos represent Argentinian machismo at its finest. Anyone who denies this is simply not paying attention. Some days, I prefer the United States, where we keep our sexism to ourselves.