PSu Magazine Winter 2002

ing a stilted dual-language conversa– tion as we negotiated the subterranean pathways of Les Hailes. None of this struck me as particularly problematic. I mean, we weren't in Kansas anymore, were we? O ne afternoon as I was making my way back to my room, I stopped at a little restaurant in hopes of a meal despite the early hour. I was, of course, the only person there but a very nice, Gallicly hand ome waiter seated me. We traversed the menu, me in heavy boors, he in ballet slipper . I made my selection. He corrected me. I smiled my gratefulness, and he brought me wine. I a ked where the restroom was. "Plea e, Madame, allow me to show you," said the dark-eyed, curly hair continental and off we went. Down the hall, around the bar, out back, along an open courtyard, into a store– room, and behind stacks of boxe . There, in the furthest reaches of the restaurant or perhaps the neighbor– hood, stood a rickety door still margin– ally attached to the frame by sagging, rusty hinge . I went inside but, as I turned to secure the door, I found that my guide had joined me. "Thank ," I said, "I can take it from here." The waiter turned and fastened the door behind him. This gave me pause, though not much room, and I tried again. "I actually prefer to be alone now," I said, the grin poi ed to take the sting out of my words. He reached around my waist and pulled me toward him and ki sed me. I stretched my arm aero s his chest, flipped the latch up, vaulted my elf into the opening and kept going until I reached the street. I picked up a cheese sandwich at a nack stand before boarding the Metro, and thoughtfully munched it as I ticked off tops until my own. I had to wonder how much my own behav– ior had contributed to the event and how much was due to my waiter's pre– conception of Americans. God forgive me; it was the first time I had asked myself how I might have been per- ceived by a tranger, who wasn't used to the open-hearted outgoingness that is de rigueur in my friendly West Coast city. t Ray Barna, profes or emerita of peech communication, would not be urpri ed by the tum of events. The former PSU educator has written and taught extensively on the subject of misunderstanding across the cul– tural divide. The Friends and Alumni of Communication Studies elected her last year as the Outstanding Alum– nus of the Year for her pioneering work in the field. "You can only learn this sort of thing when you go into another cul– ture," she say , "since each of us decodes everything in our own way. It's all we have. We don't even notice it until we find ourselves somewhere else where all the u ual trick don't work anymore." ~ o much for ympathy. At lea t Thalia Zepatos knows how I felt. The Portland travel writer tells a story in her book, A Journey of One's Own, about her first trip abroad. She wa 17 and finishing up a stint as an exchange student in Spain. From there she trav– eled to the little town in Greece where her grandmother was born. Once in the sleepy village, she fell in with a boy about her age, who had also traveled some, and they spent hour comparing experiences. They met a couple of times and each time took the opportu– nity to walk around the beautiful lake that bordered the little town. One day, as Zepatos was walking through the market with her god– mother's cousin, Foni, they ran across a hefty woman who hugged and kis ed Zepatos and launched into an ani– mated conver ation, few word of which were actually intelligible to our heroine. Finally she caught the word "nifi" or bride in Greek and, to be polite, asked who in the village was getting married. The two w men exploded in laugh– ter, Zepatos write . "You are," they told her. It seemed obvious to everyone else that after two unescorted walks around the lake the two young people were engaged. So, you see, these things can happen. "You have to be careful with a smile or with eye contact," says Barna. "In some places you can get into real trou– ble. In Japan, for instance, if a male stranger smiles at a girl, she can assume he is either a sexual maniac or a very impolite per on. The meaning of these things vary with the different cultures." I t's no easier going from a more codified culture to a more infonnal one, either. Ju ta k Paul Golding. He came from London 11 years ago and now work in development for PSU. "When I first got here, American notions of informality were nice," he ay , "but a little disconcerting. You can't get a read on how you're doing socially." Golding says when he first came to the West Coast, he thought he had suddenly become possessed by a mag– netic charm. Women at the office, the grocery store, the dry cleaners were so happy to see him. He reveled in the notion that he wa so desirable a social entity, even if it was, as he ruefully reminded himself, just the accent. Alas, it turned out it wasn't even the accent. "They were just trying to get their jobs done," he says with a sigh. Not all of his encounters were equally po itive. He remembers pend– ing an entire afternoon outraged at the overly friendly treatment he received in bank after bank while choosing where to open an account. An Ameri– can friend who was with him was mys– tified by his fury. "When I was in London I had the same bank manager for 15 years," he fumed, "and they never once called me Paul." Fortunately his friend explained the friendlines didn't denote a lip– shod operation, so Golding was finally able to find a home for his money. "The word 'diversity' hit the press a few years ago," says Barna, "and it made more sense to people than 'inter– cultural' but the principle is the same. Things don't always mean the same thing for everybody. You'd better check your perceptions by a king que - tions rather than make assumptions that might backfire." Now there's a little lesson for us all. □ WI TER 2002 PSU MAGAZINE 17