Kisses, Namaste, and the Art of Not Assuming
On a weekday afternoon in France, with sun streaming through the windows, three squares lit up on a screen. Frank, the host in Alsace, sat between time zones like a friendly air-traffic controller. One tile showed Ismar in western Brazil, coffee in reach and the Paraguayan border not far away. Another framed Ritesh in Bengaluru, evening settling softly on a city of fast ideas and louder traffic. The brief: “skills across cultures.” The result: a lively, generous masterclass in how not to assume—about greetings, about meals, about each other.
A world apart, one table
“What counts as good manners where you are?” Frank asks, half-teasing, half-serious. In France, he notes, a kiss on each cheek is routine among friends. In India? “Maybe don’t,” he laughs. In Brazil? It depends—and that’s where the nuance begins.
Right away, the conversation moves like a good lunch: bright, quick, occasionally cheeky. We hear that “Namaste” in India is a formal greeting—rooted, yes, in Sanskrit and cinema—but not mandatory for everyday warmth. We learn that Brazil’s famous cheek-kissing is common among friends yet not a first-meeting script, and that Ismar, personally, prefers a simple “bom dia” to unsolicited touch. And we sense what the hour will be about: the gap between what we’re told a culture is and how people actually live it.
What can I take from this?
Assume less. Ask more. Customs are not monoliths; they’re mosaics.
The practice of meeting people where they are
India: Formal words, informal realities
Ritesh unwraps the mythology around “Namaste.” It’s respected, yes, and elegant in the right room, but India is a federation of daily languages and layered etiquettes. “Namaste has become popular through movies and ‘high’ spaces like hotels,” he explains. “Formal—yes. Mandatory—no.” He then points to something subtler: a communication hierarchy. Deference to elders and authority can slow debate; “keep your thoughts, then ask your questions” is a habit that keeps conversations polite—but sometimes less alive. In journalism, too, tone toggles from deferential to combative depending on alignment. Listening matters. Interrupting? Case by case.
Reflection: Where in my life does politeness drift into silence? Where does courage turn into interruption?
Greeting without grabbing
When Frank asks about tactile greetings, Ismar smiles—and draws his boundary. In Brazil, yes, physical contact is common; a kiss or a hug signals closeness. Yet he doesn’t love the “touching while talking” habit. For a first meeting, he prefers words, not hands. He also decodes the coffee ritual: a pot is never far away, and “let’s have coffee” can mean more than a quick espresso; it’s often code for time—real, unhurried time.
Reflection: How do I show welcome without assumption—by asking, by watching, or by waiting?
Bridge notes from France
Frank plays the curious conductor, connecting threads and pushing lightly on clichés. He imagines Ritesh landing in Campo Grande: punctual, polite, surprised by shared lunch bills and the cultural taboo against getting drunk (“you earn a poor reputation”). He flips it: Ismar visiting Bengaluru during Holi—removing shoes at the door, using the right hand to eat, bracing for a friendly swipe of color and the quiet honor of being older in the room. These scenes are cinema and sociology at once: rituals translated into small, daily choices that make or break belonging.
What can I take from this?
Belonging begins with noticing. Doors tell you to remove shoes. Plates tell you how to eat. People tell you how to stay.
The courage to unlearn
Cliché vs. ground truth
“Brazil is not a place for amateurs,” Ismar has joked elsewhere, and part of what he means is this: the postcard is not the city. Foreigners carry stories about Brazil—carnival all year, open flirtation, endless samba—and miss the everyday codes: who pays the bill (usually everyone), how not to swear with strangers, why drunkenness is frowned upon. The misread is the point. As Ritesh puts it, we imagine the other and forget to visit them—really visit them—on the ground.
Reflection: Which culture have I decided I “know” from a distance? What would happen if I tested that story on the street?
Holi, hierarchy, hospitality
Ritesh paints Holi the way those who love it do: messy, joyful, adaptive. In cities like Bengaluru, colored powder is often confined to ticketed events or one committed day, followed by puja at home; respect for elders runs through it all. A tikka on the forehead for blessings, a touched foot for gratitude, a handshake for equals—micro-gestures that add up to a worldview. Ismar nods: tell me ahead of time and I’ll be fine. The awkwardness doesn’t come from culture; it comes from surprise.
Reflection: Is my discomfort about the custom—or about being unprepared?
Pride and the trap of being “the best”
Frank offers an Alsatian vignette: a region proud, layered, sometimes so sure of itself that it forgets to open windows. Ritesh hears an ancient lesson. Unquestioned pride can calcify into decline; empires fade when they stop evolving. Ismar observes a simpler human pattern: most of us think “home” is best—until we stay long enough somewhere else to hear our certainty talk to itself.
What can I take from this?
Identity is strong medicine. Use it to hold people; don’t weaponize it to hold them back.
The small, practical skills no one taught us
1) Calibrate the greeting.
Ask with your body before you ask with your mouth. A hovering half-hug, a hand offered but not insisted—these are intercultural love letters.
2) Read the room, then the bill.
In Brazil, sharing is normal. If your host insists (really insists), let them. In India, expect shoes at the threshold and—depending on the meal—options for fork, spoon, or fingers.
3) Don’t confuse spice with heat.
Ismar worries Indian food will set him on fire. Ritesh smiles: the spice that perfumes a dish isn’t the heat that burns it. Ask for “low heat”; savor the “spice” as aromatic grammar.
4) Celebrate without conquering.
Holi is joy, not permission. Color with consent; play like someone invited you (because someone did).
5) Tolerance isn’t tepid.
Both men circle the same word—tolerance—but mean it actively. It’s the art of holding your view without needing to declass someone else’s.
What can I take from this?
Every culture has an onboarding. You can treat it like a checklist—or like a friendship.
Laughter as the universal language
Frank keeps the air buoyant. He declares, mock-grandly, that he is “Master of Disaster” and is about to disappear on holiday, to which Ismar and Ritesh chuckle like colleagues who’ve long since learned his rhythms. They tally their combined ages—157 years—and joke about redistributing decades to level the field. It’s corny, yes, and quietly profound: we start as strangers, we end as a chorus.
Reflection: When did we stop being curious for the joy of it? When did we start needing a passport stamp to justify wonder?
Your next invitation
You don’t need to book a flight to practice “skills across cultures.” You can do it tonight at the dinner table—or tomorrow at the office door.
- Try a new greeting that honours the other person’s comfort, not your habit.
- Offer the conversation shape you wish you’d received growing up: not deference or dominance, but generous turn-taking.
- Order the dish you’ve avoided and ask for it “aromatic, not hot.”
- Share the bill, take the blessing, and let people teach you their rooms.
Frank often closes these cross-continental lunches with a warm image: that we can “create our own summer”—the season when everything grows—by the way we show up for each other. Swap “summer” for “welcome” and the principle holds. You don’t need a calendar for that. You just need to be the person who pays attention.
What can I take from this?
If culture is a garden, curiosity is the water. Pour freely.
A soft call to reflection
Before you close this page, identify your season: Are you in spring (learning), summer (hosting), autumn (revising), or winter (listening)? Then pick one small cultural skill to practice this week. Not all at once. Just one. The next time you reach out a hand—hover, watch, and let the other person teach you how to meet them halfway.
