flirt /flɜ:t/
  1. noun (person) flirteur/-euse m/f;
    péj dragueur/-euse (familiar) m/f pej.
  1. intransitive verb flirter;
    to ~ with flirter avec (person);
    jouer avec (danger, image);
    caresser (idea).

flirt(talk amorously) flirter familierdraguer 
This is a little page where I can record all of my unwanted romantic encounters in Europe, mainly for the benefit of my girlfriends back home (Brittany Lawrence, this is a particular shout-out at you, as well as my wonderful suitemates, and Rachel Johnson, who is perpetually being hit on.
creepiness value: + to + + + + +

*In Angers, I quickly discovered the French modus operandi for expressing admiration to an unknown female. It's beautiful in its simplicity: a guy simply changes his walking path until it seems like he is on a direct collision course with a girl, and right when he passes by her, he says bonjour under his breath. Then he keeps walking.
At first, this is exceedingly disconcerting, but after being in Italy, I almost came to appreciate it, because it requires absolutely nothing in return. The dragueur doesn't care if you pretend like you didn't hear him or not; he has passed on his secret message, and can continue on down the street, leaving you in relative, if somewhat uncomfortable, peace. creepiness value: +  (these are not American based values)

*On a tram in Nantes, the 5 of us travelling together were standing up, waiting for our stop, when suddenly a young, slightly creepy young man of non-European descent appears over Liana's left shoulder. He is maybe 1/4 of an inch from sticking his nose directly in her blonde hair. He interrupts us, in English, to ask "Why you speak English together? You are in France. Why are you not speaking French?" And though Liana tried her best to discreetly move away, he kept sniffing her hair. We were glad to get off that tram.
creepiness value: + + + +
*We had to catch a flight at 6 or 7 am, so we hit the street at 5. It was pitch black. Halfway through the city, we pass a man on a tram-stop bench. There's nobody else out. "Bonjour, les filles." Sigh.
creepiness value: + +

*There were three of us together in Brussels, and we walked down a touristy street crowded with restaurants. It's not unusual for restaurant hosts to call out to tourists to try to seat them, but this was a sausage-fest, no cultural-puns intended. Transcript of a fifty foot stretch of restaurants:
Bonsoir, les filles!
Ca va, les filles?
Oh, c'est magnifique, les filles!
And, poor Liana again, the last waiter was closest to her, and as she passed, he only said MMMMM.
creepiness value: + + + + +
*We're crossing a street, and a young guy, kind of Arab looking, is crossing the street towards us. He gives us really exaggerated elevator-eyes, and says Tres bonnes, les filles!
creepiness value: +   We had to laugh at this one.

*Our lack of Italian probably kept us ignorant of most of what was directed towards us, but it didn't stop one enterprising gentleman from getting to know all five of us from across the city. The day we were to leave Sardinia, Nikki and I were sitting on the steps of the building where we were staying, waiting to be let in. I see a guy in sweatpants and a baseball cap across the street. He sees us, and immediately crosses the road. "Oh no," I say to Nikki, "get ready." He asks us for a cigarette, and we respond No fumar or something to that effect. He then wants to know where we're from and our names, and we remember that we're Beth and Ruby from France. He doesn't speak French (though he explains that he teaches music there, in Paris. Hmmm...) and we don't speak Italian, but he hangs around. We speak in French, and he responds in broken English. He sees that we have cellphones, and asks repeatedly to put his number in the phones, though we say they only work in France. He tells us his name is Luca, and skillfully dodges all indications that we're not interested in getting a coffee with him.
Fast forward a few hours, when we meet up with the girls. They tell us that earlier in the day, they're accosted by a really tan guy with bright white teeth and a baseball hat who says he plays in a rock band in Paris. He was very persistent in speaking with them. I laugh, and tell them we had a similar story with a man named Luca. Turns out, this guy was also named Luca. We call Nikki over, compare memories of what he was wearing, and decide that even though we were miles apart in Cagliari, it has to be the same dude. Creeper.
creepiness factor: + + +