September 13, 2010

SAM SHARPE

I often hear women say that European men are more stylish than their North American counterparts. I’m not sure whether or not this is actually the case in any objective, measurable or verifiable sense. What I do know is that this line of thought has affected many people’s perceptions. What I do know is that countless female acquaintances have bored me to death rhapsodizing about the stylishness of European men. What I do know is that in the collective mind’s eye the average European man outfits himself with a heady mix of élan, brio and insouciance (If you don’t know what insouciance is you are either North American like me. Or apparently you don’t read enough.) that North American men fail to master.

However, after completing the Met Another Frog European Debauchery Tour I can authoritatively and unequivocally say that this line of reasoning is utter and total horseshit. Merde de cheval. Mierda del caballo. So untrue. Admittedly, though I like my clothes and kicks as much as the next man, I’m no fashionista and will not be penning style guides anytime soon. But I do know a well-dressed man when I see one. And while across the pond I did not see men that were better dressed than the ones on our shores. I did not see men who could woo the panties from the nether regions of the Queen by the sheer force of their sartorial splendor. At least not more than I see when I roam through my own fair city.

But here’s what I did see. I saw more men inhabiting an inexplicable netherworld, an indescribable space that existed outside the borders of race, gender, and socioeconomic status. Men who combined low rise, high water cotton pants with fitted cashmere sweaters and silk scarves. Men in cuffed denim trousers, penny loafers (no socks!), suspenders, Che t-shirts and Browline glasses (Think Malcolm X. Or Colonel Sanders). Men who dressed with no seeming regard for social conventions or common sense. Men whom I cannot imagine have sex on a regular basis with people other than themselves. And surely not with women. Men who forced Skye, Elizabeth and I to ask ourselves this question:

Is that man just European, Gay or Unstylish?

I know this all seems trivial. But it speaks to a larger point that is implicit in the first paragraph of this screed. Sometimes we as human beings are inordinately attracted to and impressed by the other. That which is unlike us. That which seems exotic. This often renders us incapable of evaluating things in an objective way. Or prohibits us from seeing how merely shifting the context of something can change its meaning. So that charming man who spoke with heavily accented English in a Madrid nightclub becomes just another non-English speaking immigrant in Toronto. That man who wouldn’t take no for an answer, the one who knew what he wanted (and what he wanted was you) so you just had to sleep with him shortly after you met him strolling the streets of Rome (Ciao bella. Dicami il vostro nome?!?!) is just a pushy, sexist pig when you’re at home. And that same man who is perceived as oh so stylish in his European-ness (or is that European in his stylishness?) while you vacation and debauch in Paris, Madrid or London would just be that weird guy in floods, a tweed jacket and floppy hat who had the nerve to ask for your number in Toronto.

It’s all so predictable, lame and tired. In other news, did I tell you how insanely sexy all Spanish women are and how much friendlier Europeans are than Torontonians?

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