Proximity

I like a three-foot radius of personal space.

I thought this was a byproduct of 11 years on subways, but other New Yorkers don't mind being touched. Then I heard my half-sister say, "After five minutes of spooning, he'd better get away from me," and thought "Hot damn! It's genetic." But my sister grew up sleeping four to a bed; she's got an excuse. So maybe it isn't genetic.

Maybe it's just me being awkward, ticking the seconds I'm in someone else's grasp. 

This quirk will be the death of me in Liberia. Here, I spent ten sweaty hours in a child's chair in a packed, one-room schoolhouse observing elections. Here, I let the elderly knead my arm for the length of a car ride when they learn I'm related to so-and-so. Here, I let people hold (and swing) my hand indefinitely. I suffer in silence. 

There is no personal space in Liberia. My uncle, his wife and their children share a room; he also comes by unannounced to do laundry. Male adolescents hold hands as casually as children. Women actually pat and evaluate each other's fleshiness. Strangers lean against you, squeeze your shoulder, use your knee to steady themselves, offer you food, touch your clothing, touch your hair.

Yet I've never seen Liberians kiss.

It's the strangest thing.

I caught expats snuggling on wicker at a bar on Saturday and my stomach didn't turn. That was new. It was actually kind of...sweet.

So if I get nothing else from my year here, I can now tolerate appropriate forms of intimacy. (Or, you know, at least six minutes of spooning.)