I’m not just bragging when I say this girl gets around …
Mile-high club aside, I’m a platinum card carrying member of pretty much every other travel-related program out there. In the name of corporate conquest, I’ve become a genuine global citizen, with the inky passport pages to prove it. Taking care of business literally takes me around the world, and along the way, I’ve more or less mastered the unspoken language of the meet and greet.
I can always come up with the correct kiss count thanks to time well spent in conference rooms across “the continent,” and attending summits in sultry South America (beware Brazil—rocking Rio de Janeiro gets two kisses, but stuffy São Paulo only one!). Thanks to assorted Asian adventures, my bows score high marks for both technical and artistic merit. And of course I own the NYC-UK-LA triumvirate, so I have long considered myself a connoisseur of the handshake. That is, up until last week …
There I was, up to my eyeballs in white bread, smack dab in the middle of Middle America, home to everything normal with a capital zzzz. In other words, the last place you expect anything out of the ordinary to occur.
Anyway, I had just arrived at a meeting and was introducing myself around the room. Standard shake seemed in order—firm but friendly—and I was going in for the grab when suddenly this guy pulls a fast one on me. Instead of meeting me half-way, he folds my fingers around his, flips my wrist palm down, and gently holds my hand like he might just bend over and buss it.
I was so confused by this princess/pope kiss-the-ring maneuver, I actually chirped out: “Charmed, I’m sure!” Although, of course, I wasn’t. More like baffled to be briefly thrown off my game, transformed by a simple gesture from bad-ass business babe to demure damsel.
What was this guy thinking? I mean, this is 2007, for crying out loud! And I might expect to be caught off-guard by business customs in Doha or Delhi, but Dayton?!
