An American Co-ed on European men
A Scotsman on American Co-eds
European Men Are So Much More Romantic Than American Men
By Alyssa Lerner Junior, Boston University
I just got back from a semester abroad in Europe, and let me tell
you, it truly was the most magical, amazing experience of my entire
life. The French countryside was like something out of a storybook, the
Roman ruins were magnificent, and the men, well, European men are by far
the most romantic in the world.
You American men all think you’re so suave and sophisticated. Well,
thinkagain! European men make you look like the immature, inexperienced
little children you are. They really know how to make a woman feel
special over there. Unlike the so-called men here in the States,
European men know how to treat a woman right.
For one thing, European men aren’t afraid to come up and talk to you.
And they know how to start slow, with a nice cup of Italian espresso or
a long walk on some historic street. They know the places you can’t
find in any tourist guide. They know the whole history of the cities in
which they live–who the fountains are named after, who the statues are.
I remember one unforgettable night in Aberdeen, I sat and listen to a
Scottish sailor for hours as he told me about the countless men who
fought over their queen back in ancient times. Afterward, he told me he
loved his homeland even more now that he’d seen it through my eyes. I
ask you, would an American man ever say something as deep and beautiful
European men know the most romantic little cafÈs and bistros and
trattorias, candlelit places where you can be alone and drink the most
fantastic wine. They tell you what’s on the menu and what you should
try.(If it wasn’t for a certain young man in Edinburough, I never would
have discovered fusilli a spinaci et scampi.) And the whole time,
they’re looking deep into your eyes, like you’re the only woman on the
What woman could resist a man like that? Then, after a moonlit
stroll along the waterfront and a kiss in the doorway of their artist’s
loft, you find yourself unable to–well, I’ll leave the rest to your
I’ll never forget my magical semester abroad. One thing’s for
sure–I’m ruined for American men forever!
American Women Studying In Europe Are Unbelievably Easy
By Ian McGreggor
I’m a 25-year-old carpenter living in Edinburough, and I don’t mind
telling you that I get all the action I can handle. I’m not all that
handsome or well-dressed, and I’m certainly not rich. In fact, my
Scottish country lasses could take me or leave me. But that’s just
fine, because the UK gets loads of tourist traffic, and American co-eds
traveling through Europe are without a doubt the easiest lays in the
Being European gives me a hell of an advantage. I’m not sure why,
but there’s something about the accent that opens a lot of doors. All
you have to do is go up to them, act a little shy and say, “Well now,
Whould hyou like to go with me, lassie?” I actually have to thicken up
my accent a little, but they never, ever catch on.
After a cheap coffee, which to them always tastes better than
anything they’ve ever had, because they’re in Europe, it’s time to walk
them. Now, all they know about Scotland is what they’ve read in a
“Let’s Go” handout, so you can pretty much just make up a whole bunch of
shit. It’s fun to see how much they’ll swallow: As long as I refer to
Scotland as “my homeland” and other Scots as “my people,” they’ll
believe pretty much anything. I don’t know who most of the local
statues are, so I tell the muffins they’re all great artists and poets
and lovers. Once, just for the hell of it, I told a psychology major
from the University of Maryland that a public staircase was part of the
Spanish Steps, which she’d never even heard of. Another time, I told
this blonde from Michigan State that the public library was the
Parthenon, and she cooed like I’d just given her a diamond.
For dinner, I usually take them to some cheap little hole in the
wall, someplace deserted where not even the cops eat. American girls
think candlelight means “romance,” not “deteriorating public utilities,”
so they just poke their nipples through their J. Crew sweaters and
never notice that there’s no electricity. Just as well, because
Scottish restaurants aren’t exactly the cleanest. After a bunch of
fast-talk about the menu, I get them the special, which is usually some
anonymous pasta with spinach and two day-old shrimp, and whatever cheap,
generic, Pope’s-blood chianti’s at the bottom of the list.
By this time, they’re usually standing in a slippery little puddle.
Going in for the kill, I walk them past one of Edinburough’s famous
2,000-year-old open cesspools. Then, as we open the door to my shitty
efficiency, I kiss them on the eyelids so they don’t see the roaches,
making sure the first thing they see is the strategically positioned
artist’s easel I bought at some church sale. That’s usually all they
need to see and, like clockwork, they fall backwards on my bed with
their Birkenstocks in the air.
I mean, they’re hardly Scottish women, but we have a saying here in
Europe: Why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free?
This page was last updated April 2, 1999.