Embraced

What I’m about to tell you may come as a shock. Some of you will be mortified. Some of you will, like Gigi, think I’m overreacting. “It’s cultural” he assures me. ‘Inappropriate’ is my word of choice.

The story: I’m at the centre, watching the band warm up in preparation for their usual Sunday afternoon practice. Some of the usual crowd are there; lending moral support and enjoying the music as the band find their rhythm. I greet the familiar faces as they arrive, often not really sure of names, but in no doubt that I’m supposed to as their faces light up at the sight of me trying to blend into the wall, before approaching with greetings and double kisses. However, there are a few faces I haven’t seen before.

A number of middle aged women mill around, looking very comfortable, but unusually I’m not introduced to any of them. I don’t mind though, preferring to keep to myself, as I try to understand the conversations going on around me.

The band has started rehearsing a new number, something I haven’t heard before, involving a mandolin played by a Russian woman. The music has a South American flavour, and I’m listening as the acoustic guitar, African drums and keyboard start to settle in. As I’m concentrating, deciding if I like the high pitched energy of the mandolin, I’m suddenly approached by one of the women.

I’ve gathered from the early conversations that she’s from Ukraine. She has the trademark home dyed hair of many Eastern European immigrants in Naples. It has faded to an unfortunate apricot colour and closely mirrors the hair cut and colour of her companion. I’ve been watching as she enthusiastically claps and dances to the music, although it’s still somewhat fragmented and under development.

Before I realise it, she’s standing in front of me, her hands on my shoulders. She’s already invading my personal space. In Italian, she says ‘Oh, look at this woman, this sad, sad woman. What’s the matter? What’s happened for you to be so sad? Come on, leave your troubles at the door, and enjoy the music.’

I’m trying to process what she’s saying, wondering how I can respond without appearing rude. My instincts are crying out for her to step back, remove her hands. Perhaps an introduction might be in order before you get so personal, part of my brain is thinking. Unexpectedly, she releases me, only to step behind me and embrace me in a hug, her arms wrapped around my chest, my own arms now pinned to my sides.

It’s at this point that something inside me starts to panic. I’m standing in a crowded room, Gi is just metres away, and yet somehow I find myself in a front to back cuddle with a complete stranger who is now murmuring, what she thinks are, cheerful reassurances in my ear. I’m aware of her bosom pressed up against my back, her breath warm against my ear. Half of my brain is working through a list of things to say, quickly eliminating everything that comes to mind. Stock standard expressions I try to have at the ready when I’m riding public transport, like ‘Don’t touch me’ and ‘What the *@!#$% are you doing?’ None of these seem appropriate though, and the English half of my brain is just wondering what it is that makes strange people think it’s somehow okay to just come over to me and hug me like I’m their best friend. I know Gi is watching, and something inside of me snaps and I’m afraid that I’m going to start to cry, partly out of shock and partly because I know that whatever I say to her it’s not going to fully express my complete discomfort and the wave of irritation that is rising within me.

I awkwardly push her off, disengaging her clinch, and manage to say ‘Per Favore’ (please) in an effort not to offend her.

It’s not until much later that I wonder why I don’t just speak English in these situations. I know I’m not going manage to say what I want to say politely in Italian, and perhaps by speaking my native language she’ll hear from the tone how inappropriate her behaviour towards me has been. I go on to assume that in her culture it’s okay to hug and attempt to console strangers. But somehow that gives me little relief as I’m left wondering if she wasn’t experiencing a moment of misdirected sisterhood left over from some 70’s feminist rally she took part in during her youth.

For some reason Gi confirms my suspicions that it’s ‘cultural’. I wouldn’t have minded if it had been someone that I’d already been introduced to, someone that at least knows something about me – my name, that I’m Australian, that I’m Gigi’s wife, that I’m a naturally shy person who doesn’t appreciate being attacked by over zealous Eastern European women with polyester trousers and a zest for life that is not part of my make up.

I went home and recounted the story to our flatmate Dana, who physically cringed at the tale. Dana has much greater personal space requirements than me, and reckons she might have fainted if she’d been in my place. I don’t doubt her either.

Several hours later, I still don’t understand the cultural etiquette that allowed this woman to be so physically intimate with me. I do know, that next Sunday, should I accompany Gigi to band practice I will try and work up the courage to talk to her, perhaps starting with an introduction, and then letting her know that in future she might like to consider that some people need a little time and familiarity before you jump on top of them. It’s a cultural thing, but surely my culture is just as valid as anyone’s.