Before I arrived in Sevilla I mentally braced myself to live in a country that’s considerably less concerned with the politically correct than my own. In study abroad orientation I took away that a) Cat calls — piropos — are frequent and inevitable in Spain, b) Everyone in the world thinks American girls are easy and morally loose and c) That I can’t do anything about the piropos or the general misogyny, so get over it.

I wasn’t so worried about b), mostly because it’s not in my nature to wander home with strange men whether it be at home or overseas. Many of you know that I watch a lot of MSNBC documentaries, so I know better than to get friendly with strangers. The piropos in Spain occur from time to time, but it’s not like a girl can’t walk a block without a gang of men hanging out car windows and whistling. We’re strongly encouraged not to react to cat calls, understandably, although I sometimes find them difficult to disregard. In Iowa, if a group of hillbilly frat boys drives by in a Ford pickup and starts hollering, my natural reaction is to swiftly raise a middle finger and make fierce eye contact with the primary cat calling culprit. So far, I’ve managed not to do that here. I worry that perhaps the middle finger isn’t an insult in Spain, but some kind of nonverbal agreement that I’d rather not enter into.

Aside from the hollering and piropos, there is one piggish, slimy move that I cannot ignore — the ass grab.

I was pushing my way out of a crowded bar last night when some local bro boldly grabbed my rear. Mind you, there was no mistaking this ass grab for an accidental graze. When I say boldly, I mean this fellow had an asinine amount of nerve.

To clarify, ass grabbing isn’t a strictly cultural thing. I distinctly remember encountering this at the Picador in Iowa City — perhaps eastern Iowa’s only “hipster” bar — and not a place where I’d expect any skeazy creeps to grab at me like a bread basket at the Old Country Buffet. Unlike cat calls, physical contact penetrates the two-foot bubble of personal space that I prefer to maintain around strangers. Also unlike cat calls, physical contact, in my opinion, is far more threatening and demeaning.

Instead of flipping the bird last night, I simply turned around, looked the jerk in the eye (eep, I hope it was the right guy), and said, “Are you kidding me?” along with a few more expletives. As far as I’m concerned, I kept my cool, but I was still heated. Fuming. Ablaze. Conflagrant.

I don’t exactly know how to articulate the root of my disdain for such brazen physical disrespect. It’s the equivalent of someone walking up to me and saying, “We don’t know each other, but you are a woman, therefor my subordinate, so I can grab you as I please.” No, you can’t, and don’t expect me to respond kindly to it. Granted, I don’t want to get into any kind of physical altercation here — because I will lose — but, you know. I’ll swear at you.

In completely different news, I’ve turned my host lady onto Lady Gaga. This was wonderful initially, but yesterday she played The Fame album at least eight times in a row. Who knew there was such a thing as too much Gaga? I start classes tomorrow, and I was informed that I’m in the group that scored highest on the Spanish placement test. Although I speak like a gringa supreme, my ability to read, write and understand the language must count for something.

I do enjoy Sevilla thus far, but I’m still waiting for the day  I can navigate from point A to B without becoming hopelessly lost. The enormity of my program also doesn’t facilitate making good friends very quickly, but I’m finally starting to spend time with people similar me, who didn’t come here with large groups of BFFsssz and besties from home. If nothing else, I’ve already learned a lot. Namely how to say “hangers” (for clothes), specifics about the drug laws in Spain and all about the Roman ruins in the nearby city of Itálica. And really, that’s all anyone needs to know.