Along the same cobblestone streets, leaning on walls of crumbling, decaying stucco, framed against faded granite, turning a corner of soot-black bricks: girls holding hands, boys holding hands. Women arm in arm, men arm in arm. Sisters and brothers, cousins and friends, mothers and daughters, fathers and toddlers: holding hands, arms around each other's shoulders, each other's waists. Kissing cheeks. Hugging. Holding hands, stroking arms, brushing cheeks, touching shoulders. In cheerful recognition, in quiet affection, in tenderness, in ritual. Cousins wrapped together in conversation, brothers in silent comfort, sisters in whispered relief.

One person comes into a room, and the eight people already there half-rise from their chairs in greeting, hold up their hands to be briefly touched, smile. Say hello, say his name. A while later, he leaves for a few moments to a chorus of farewells. When he returns in a short time, eight people half-rise, hold up their hands, say hello. One of my guidebooks says of this endless, consuming practice of greeting, "Relationships are more important than time."

I watch my daughter, just 15 years old, shy, persistent, unique. We are in a foreign country. My daughter was born here, but that doesn't make it home. She doesn't remember; it is strange here, she doesn't know how to belong. Introduced to my friend who lives here, my startled child is embraced -- not only by my friend, but by each woman in the room. They wrap their arms around her, kiss her cheek, whisper in her ear: ritual greetings, advice, encouragement. The two men nearby put their feet together, nod at her in greeting, smile warmly. Later, the eldest woman in the group pulls my daughter over to her, puts her arm tightly about her shoulder, and marches off, without question; I follow several steps behind, watching their heads bowed together as they walk. I am jealous of both of them; I am guilty, for taking her away.

Later, in another room, we are introduced to a circle of women working together around a table. Each says hello to me. Each turns to my daughter, one at a time, and greets her personally in a language she barely understands. Some speak in whole paragraphs full of formality. The words don't matter; the tone is so clear. The women say welcome. They say gladness. They say how happy they are that she is here. It is like a diplomatic coup, like a treaty, a wedding, a contract, a truce. She is a stranger no more.

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