I had heard of the warmth of the Brazilians, the coconut smiles, the lullaby hugs, the arms of humble houses flung wide to greet the merest stranger. All Brits hold a sort of awe or uneasiness with regard to the openness and sensuality of the Latin people, a more forward approach to strangers than we English acknowledge and kindly back away from, preferring to observe at a distance and never really being able to imitate. But being aware of this unfamiliar and indefinable approach is one thing; learning and even trying to appropriate its various manifestations is very different.

Take the simple phrase, “Excuse me, please can you show me the way to the bank?” A polite, fairly neutral approach. Or so you might have thought. First, I attempt the direct translation. The chosen victim, a squat man of roughly 70, steps aside to let me pass. I hesitate, trapped in the headlights of his bewildered gaze. He is clearly wondering why I have not proceeded with what I asked. Not wanting to alienate myself further, I obey and pass quickly, his puzzled stare hot on my back.

Inhale deeply

It turns out the direct translation of excuse me, is literally that, please excuse my physical presence. It turns out to be a steep learning curve. First I had to get into the habit of saying ‘Good morning’, ‘Good afternoon’ or ‘Good evening’ to get the required person’s attention, meanwhile rather enjoying the resemblance to a bygone Victorian politeness and cheer. Then, I had to learn to add the compulsory ‘amigo’ or ‘amiga’ to really make sure they’re listening. The more advanced may use the more affectionate variant of ‘amiguinho’, or ‘amiguinha’, which will really camouflage you into the national identity, though this may present problems if they are of questionable gender.

Son, daughter, mother, father, uncle, aunt, old man, brother and sister are all thrown into the greeting mix, with no apparent logic behind them. I have been addressed as ‘Daughter’ just as much as ‘Mum’ by women thrice my age. And employing the appellation ‘Old man’ doesn’t seem to have the slightest connotation of disrespect or correspond to the age of the person spoken to. It’s bandied about the playground like the word ‘dude’.

Of course, the über-advanced employ ‘nego’ or ‘nega’ (black man or woman) with the racially indifferent ease of a local, though this runs the risk of launching yourself head-first into the endless debate of black consciousness. Not to be advised, unless you have at least three hours on your hands and like to casually engage in ‘wigga’ activities.

The immediate intimacy you have now established then renders your question entirely irrelevant: ‘Oh the bank, you want, is it? Saving, I see, yes, children are so expensive these days...’ and on and on and on, and, just when you think they have finished, ‘And your grandmother? Supporting her too, are we?’ You make your excuses, realising as you leave that you are still utterly clueless as to where the bank is.

If contact with strangers is challenging enough, I thought meeting potential friends in a social setting might be a little easier. Two kisses on each cheek, no pause in the middle... Easy. This straightforward formula immediately proved to be a problem when I, seated, was introduced to a standing person. I turned my head for the aforementioned greeting and a kiss was directly planted on my forehead. On my forehead. As if they were a kindly grandmother or a priest performing a religious ritual. And this was a seventeen year old child! Forehead, though, I thought I could get used to. I made a mental note.

But then I saw a family friend kissing her grown up sons on the shoulders. And on other occasions, I received kisses on the thigh and arm, without the slightest hint of sexual intention. As far as I was aware. These, I thought, might take a little longer to get used to.

Corporal kisses given to one’s children, I could just about grasp. And every time I thought I could get used to that little bit of extra and unfamiliar intimacy, a new one would rear its overtly sensual head. The next came in the form of The Smell. It goes something like this: Pick up a small child, (or lover) cuddle it close to your chest, bury your nose into its neck and inhale deeply, getting to the very roots of the scent. “What the hell are you doing?” I almost cried out, when I first saw this in action, the victim being a five year old child. He’s too old to have shat himself.

But don’t knock it till you’ve tried it, they say. So I did. And I started to like it. I realised this is exactly what you do when you hug someone; the English just don’t mention it. Rarely, and only then when the smell is an artificial or unusual one, a perfume or B.O., for example.

Having accustomed myself to the rich and varied repertoire of the Brazilian greeting, I was rather taken aback to be greeted with a handshake by a banker. More than English, you might say. We continued to chat about his business, personal space territorially demarcated, in a way I hadn’t for a long time. I began to feel comfortable again in this formal frigidity... until he grabbed my waist and hurled his face in for a kiss. Without further delay, I made my excuses and rapidly left the room. There seems to be no safety net in any situation! I left Brazil wondering if I had actually learnt anything at all. Not the whereabouts of the bank, that’s for sure.