I am walking across the Danube River in Linz, Austria, when I am approached by a man. He’s young and good-looking. He looks like a guy one of my friends would date. I would nod and smile and agree, when I saw his picture, that he was cute.

He starts to talk to me in rapid-fire German. I walk a little faster. I don’t want to talk to anyone. I am on a study abroad trip with 11 other girls. I was savoring this walk as my "introvert time."

He’s still talking.

“I’m sorry, I only speak English.”

More German.

Then he’s looking expectantly, and I realize that he asked me for my name.

“Isabelle.”

Why did I give him my name?

“You are beautiful.”

I mumble something like thanks; I am over the bridge now. He’s still talking, there are more people, I can duck into a store. I can start talking to that family -- hopefully they speak English.

“Can I get your number?”

“No, sorry.”

I speed up as the light changes green. I weave through tourists and locals and start to head toward the train station where I am meeting my group. Four blocks away, I see him again, same floppy hair, white T-shirt, 10 feet away, eyes fixed on me.

I turn a corner.

And another corner.

I realize I’m running.

I only stop when I am in a sporting goods store; I catch my breath between Adidas and Nikes. I fight off angry tears as I ask myself, "How the hell did this happen again?"

I was catcalled for the first time when I was 12. I don’t remember what was shouted at me, but I remember the confusion. I felt as if he was mistaken, that the crudeness must be meant for someone else.

When I was walking home from school when I was 16 in my school uniform, a car slowed down, the driver stared, and then drove off.

When I was 17, a man shouted at me and my mother, asking if he could "turn me out."

At 18, a group of my peers drove by and told me to lift my skirt up.

I have been harassed in San Francisco, San Jose, Saratoga, Portland, Bellingham, Vienna, and Linz. Almost everywhere I have ever lived or visited.

These men have been every color. The oldest in their 60s -- men older than my father calling me sexy. The youngest, probably only 14. Those boys still had baby fat and too-big feet. It was worse than the old men.

Men have shouted, learned, and followed. I have been called horrible names, and names that make it hard to use as terms of affection.

“Bitch, you’re not worth it anyway.”

“I’d give you a good time, Honey.”

“You are beautiful.”

I leave the sporting goods store, and there’s no sign of him. I breathe a sigh of relief. I look at the map on my phone and I weave through the backstreets, just to be safe.

Just to be safe.

My mom taught me to tag along with groups and under streetlights when alone at night. Carry a rape whistle. Watch your drink at parties.

Be safe.

Sylvia Plath wrote, “Yes, my consuming desire is to mingle with road crews, sailors and soldiers, bar room regulars — to be a part of a scene, anonymous, listening, recording — all this is spoiled by the fact that I am a girl, a female always supposedly in danger of assault and battery... Yes, God, I want to talk to everybody as deeply as I can. I want to be able to sleep in an open field, to travel west, to walk freely at night.”

Her words ring true even half a century later.

I don’t want to live in fear. I want to walk freely at night. I want to walk alone. I don’t want to cringe when a stranger talks to me.

I want to be able to walk through this world with just as much confidence as a man.

I don’t want to live in fear.

I had thought that street harassment was a U.S. problem. I was wrong.

From Chile to Croatia to Canada, women are being harassed on the street.

In Nepal, one in three women doesn’t feel safe in public transportation.

In Pakistan, 96 percent of girls are harassed on the street.

In Morocco, 63 percent of women have experienced sexual violence in public spaces.

Rape culture in the form of street harassment is a global epidemic.

I get mad at myself when catcalling ruins my day.

I get annoyed when I flinch as male strangers pass by after I've been followed.

I feel guilty over being mad and annoyed. It’s not my fault that I was harassed. It’s not my fault that I am scared of getting assaulted.

I go 'round and 'round and 'round.

Why do men look at harassment as a game? Why did I have to be the bigger person at 16 and not engage while an adult gets to play like he is a child?

Why is my safety, and the safety of others, as trivial to our harassers as pool, or poker?

I don’t have a good answer on how to end street harassment. What would end the culture? Education? Family structure? Laws? Women’s rights activism?

I don’t have a good answer on how to stop street harassment at home, let alone globally, but I do know this: the same culture that produces street harassment creates a world where one in three women is physically or sexually abused in her lifetime.

We can’t ignore either any longer. We can’t pretend that it is no big deal. I am shouting into a void, I don’t think anyone who didn’t care will suddenly now, but I have to try.

I can’t not try.

I make it to the train station. I browse the bookstore. Take notes for my class. Buy coffee ice cream.

My pulse goes back to normal, I look at my phone. I will meet the rest of my class in five minutes. I leave the station, hoping to see my professors or peers.

Instead, I see him.

He has a huge smile when he notices me. He’s waving at me like I am an old friend.

I am furious.

“Nein.”

I scream the word. I didn’t mean to, but I did.

I turn on my heels and walk away, back to the train station.

I turn once to see if he’s still following me.

He’s not. He’s in the exact same place I left him, staring at me as I walk away.

He is looking at me like I hurt his feelings.