I was in NYC last weekend, and I thought I’d share this story, which happened to me in Grand Central Station:
So it was about 11:30 PM and I had about a half hour before my train came in (I was staying at my dad’s out of the city). I went and sat against the wall near the appropriate track and waited and waited and waited. I was pretty tired so I started to drift off a little bit.
I wake up and there’s this Indian guy in a suit looking down and saying something to me. I’m sleepy and he’s sort of mumbling so I don’t hear it exactly, but smile and nod; I assume he’s saying something like, “caught you sleeping, haha!” He says something else and goes to shake my hand by way of introduction. I extend my hand and he shakes my hand but is kind of rubbing it too. “Strange,” think I. “Is this some weird secret hand-shake that’s supposed to tell me he’s looking for drugs or something like that? I’m confused.”
“Where do you live?” he asks. “Up the Hudson a ways. I’m waiting for my train,” which, for the purposes of my NY experience was basically the truth. He points south, “I am just five minutes away.”
Then he asks me, “Are you Italian or Irish?” (I’ve never had anyone ask me if I’m Irish, and I thought that was kind of funny). A little light is juuuuust starting to go on in my tired and generally oblivious head. “Italian, actually,” I say. “Ah,” says he. "I like Italians. Strong. somethingelse something else (he’s talking quietly and with a thick accent so I miss a lot of what he says). He continues, “Indians are strong, somethingsomethingsomething.” Ah-HA! I get it! I’m getting picked up! That also explains why he keeps staring down at my crotch, over and over again! This is… interesting.
“You want to get a drink?” “What’s that?” (note, I’m still having trouble hearing the guy, and am dead tired). “You come over, I have tea, coffee, beer, whiskey?”
“No thanks. I think I’m just going to sit here and wait for my train.”
“Ok,” he says. “I’ll be over this way if you want.”
So, then, because I’m just that kind of person who doesn’t like to have a conversation with someone and not introduce myself, say, “nice to meet you, what’s your name?” He says something that might have been David, but again, he’s so quiet I can’t really hear clearly. “I’m Eonwe, nice to meet you,” and I extend my hand. Of course, he grabs it and does his little hand-rubby thing again, which, if I had been thinking I would have avoided. He walked off sort of trailing my hand a bit, laughs a bit, says, “I like you,” and walks off.
Now, I’ve never been propositioned like that. Kind of ammusing, though of course one of the thoughts that go through my head is, “sigh. Too bad that wasn’t a gorgeous woman. Because then I would have been twice as flabbergasted . . . and probably done nothing different.” 
