Cross-Cultural Encounter With Dialogue

Victor Barreiro
Professor Carol Severino
HONR:1300:0021

Despedida de Beso

                Travel, even within one’s own country, can allow us to meet people from different cultures who are also visiting. Take as an example my last visit to Puerto Vallarta, quite a few years ago. My parents had been celebrating an important event, but strangely enough, I don’t remember what it was that we were celebrating. The point was, my father was pulling all the stops. We were staying at the Grand Luxxe, with a nice view of the Puerto Vallartan sea. I had been playing outside with both of my brothers all day and, to their amusement, had forgotten to bring sandals, which meant that I had to craft myself some out of leaves to be able to walk in the incredibly hot concrete walkways that connected the different pools in the hotel. As such, I was tired, my feet hurt, and if I don’t recall wrong, I was also a bit sunburnt.

                As it was at the time customary for me whenever I needed a bit of a break, I grabbed a book, walked into the hallway outside of my room, and started reading on my iPad.  

                After a few pages, a girl around my age came out of one of the nearby rooms, some twenty feet away. I don’t remember exactly what she looked like, but I do know that she was pretty. She was followed by a younger brother, one of those kids that seem to have boundless energy. They were fleeing the gown-up party that was going on inside, and the smell of alcoholic drinks filled the air from their open door. Most importantly, though, they were speaking in English, rather than the Spanish I was so used to hearing.

“Americanos” I thought. This excited me for various reasons; it had been so long since I had met someone I had to speak in English to, and I have always rather enjoyed speaking it. Additionally, I have always found it easier to make fast friends with Americans than with Mexicans, so I thought that at one point I would approach them, and try to strike a conversation. So, I read for a while, occasionally looking up from my book to see if it was the right moment to interrupt. Back in the day, I was painfully shy, so it took a lot of effort for me to approach people. I had to steel my nerves, think of what I was going to say, rephrase it a thousand times, and-

                “Hello!” The kid asked, suddenly next to me. “What’s that?”

                “Oh, this? It’s a book, I want to be a writer when I graduate, so I have to read a lot.”

                The sister took note of her brother’s lack of interest in my personal space and called out his name. “That’s rude!” she complained.

                “It’s okay.” I seized the chance. “I don’t mind. What are your names?”

                They told me their names, and I would list them here, but to be perfectly honest, I don’t even remember the name of the person I had lunch with the day I wrote this, let alone someone I met so many years ago. So please, forgive me if I continue to call them “the girl” and “the kid”.

                “So, what are you guys doing?” I asked.

                “We’re playing cards, want to join in?” She asked with a smile.

                “Of course!”

***

                After a very fun evening, it was finally time to say goodbye. We had agreed to meet at noon the next day. So, I made the kid jump for a high five, and proceeded to cause a cultural misunderstanding with the girl. You see, in Mexico, we are taught from a young age that the only gentlemanly way to say both hello and goodbye to a lady is by shaking her hand, have both parties get a bit closer, and then kiss other person’s cheek, in a very similar manner to the way Italians do it. Now, I’m fairly sure all of you reading this already know how shocked she was to have a guy she just met suddenly kiss her cheek with no apparent warning, but I had absolutely no clue about what was going on in her head. For me, it was the most normal thing in the world.

                “Have a good night!” I said, smiling. I don’t remember if she replied, but I do know that was the last time I ever saw her.

***

                The next morning, at exactly 11:43AM, seventeen minutes before I was going to meet with the girl and her brother, there was a knock on my hotel room’s door.

                “Hijo, hay un señor en la entrada buscándote. Dice que conoces a su hija” Warned my Mom. There was a man looking for me at the door, claiming I knew his daughter.  As cautious as she looked, I paid no heed, because at one point in the previous night, I had met the two American’s father and he had gotten along very well.

                I approached the door with a friendly “Good morning! How are you?”

                As soon as I crossed the door and was outside of my room, he slammed the door shut, and went straight to the point. His figure towered over mine, and he crossed his arms in an intimidating fashion.

                “Victor, yesterday I saw you pull my daughter in for a kiss. I don’t like that, and I don’t like you, and I don’t want to see you near her again.” He said.

                I was incredibly confused. When I heard him say that, it sounded to me like he was implying that I had kissed his daughter’s lips, and I knew for a fact that I hadn’t done that.

               “Uhhh….” I uttered. “No, I-“

                “Don’t even try to deny it. I saw you.”

“¿Qué chingados viste?” I thought. What the hell had he seen? I knew for a fact that, by the definition I had in mind, I hadn’t kissed her. So what was he talking about?

                After a few more instances of me trying to find words fast enough to defend myself from the “you’re a terrible influence and I better not see you again” speech, it finally dawned on me. He was walking about the greeting!

                Once I had this crucial piece of information, I was suddenly armed with my finest weapon: my silver tongue. Eloquence and word choice are always my armaments of choice to get out of difficult situations.

                “Oh! I now see what you mean. You are talking about a kiss on the cheek, right? That is a common greeting here, and considered gentlemanly in this country. I was not aware that it was not customary to do so in the United States, and in fact, I thank you for letting me know that this action made her uncomfortable, as I would have been otherwise oblivious to that fact…”

                I talked for a little longer, and he kept trying to counter, to find something to be mad about, but rephrasing my original argument in increasingly eloquent ways eventually did the trick.

                “Yeah, maybe it is a cultural difference.” He finally accepted. He left shortly after that, and for the rest of the trip, I played around with my brothers (and a few days later, my cousins as well), but I never talked with anyone from that family again. And ever since then, the most contact I have when greeting Americans (if any at all) is a high-five or a bro-fist, or if I feel like we’re close, perhaps even a handshake.