After seven months of living in Chile for my PhD project, I’ve finally mastered the art of forgetting how to say hello. Or goodbye. Or anything, really, that involves cheek kissing. As I prepare to leave this beautiful country, I am reminded that I’ve spent more time perfecting my awkwardness than the actual cultural ritual. I guess you could say I’m a cheeky failure.
Let’s start with the basics: In Chile, people greet and bid farewell with two kisses on the cheeks. Seems simple, right? Wrong. For someone like me, whose internal programming defaults to a firm handshake or an enthusiastic wave from a safe distance, with hugs reserved for close friends, this custom has been a journey filled with misunderstandings, poorly timed kisses, and enough social discomfort to fuel a Netflix comedy special.
The overeager kiss
My first mistake was enthusiasm. Lots of it. For some reason, my instinct was to lean in like I was reenacting a rom-com. I moved too fast. Too confidently. My unsuspecting Chilean acquaintances often found themselves dodging a kiss that felt less like a polite gesture and more like I was trying to whisper a dramatic secret into their ear. I’m sure there’s a WhatsApp group out where I’m known as ‘La Gringa Intensa’.
The forgetful gringa
Once I realized that eagerness wasn’t the move, I went too far in the other direction. I became the Forgetful Gringa. At dinners, I’d casually stroll into conversations, skipping the cheek-kiss ritual entirely. Friends would lean in, their faces hanging awkwardly in mid-air, as I obliviously rattled on about the weather or my thesis. One friend joked that interacting with me was like trying to hug a cactus—confusing, mildly uncomfortable, and full of unexpected detours.
Cultural roots, lost on me
Cheek kissing, as it turns out, is a practice steeped in history. The Romans, who had a kiss for every occasion (cheeks for friends, lips for lovers, and ‘savolium’ – a deep kiss – for what I assume was ancient Tinder), would be horrified by my performance. Early Christians even had the ‘holy kiss’, meant to spread peace and goodwill. Meanwhile, I’ve been spreading uncertainty and light forehead collisions.
It’s not just Chile; this tradition exists worldwide. In France, you might kiss twice, three times, or even four depending on the region. In Brazil, you could be in for three kisses. In the Middle East, it might go up to four. Here in Chile, I just had to remember: two kisses. One for each cheek. Sounds manageable. It wasn’t.
Goodbye, but not really
Now, as I prepare to leave Chile, I realize my farewell tour is destined to be as clumsy as my first day here. Each goodbye feels like a mini pop quiz: Did I get both cheeks? Was that a polite kiss or a ‘wow, that was aggressive’ kiss? Are we still friends, or did I just make this encounter weird forever?
If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that cheek kissing is as much art as it is ritual. It’s about rhythm, intent, and timing—none of which seem to be my strengths anymore. But maybe that’s the beauty of it. Cheek kissing isn’t about perfection; it’s about connection. And if there’s one thing I’ve felt during my time here, it’s the warmth and openness of Chilean people, even when I’m fumbling my way through social norms.
Leaving the land of double cheek kisses, I’m bracing myself for my return to Groningen, where Dutch greeting customs will once again reign supreme. After months of misfiring on kisses, I’m ready for the simplicity of Dutch restraint.
That said, simplicity does not extend to the Groningen housing market. So, dear readers, if you have any leads on a place to live please send them over (find me at my RUG email address). Otherwise, I might end up enthusiastically nodding to my reflection in a canal, utterly homeless in the midst of this never-ending housing crisis.
VALERIA CERNEI