Personal Space

I have a long torso. Even though I buy traditional, modest shirts that would cover up the average person, I consistently struggle with showing some midriff. Believe me, after having a baby, I don't intentionally flaunt my midsection. The tough part is that it doesn't matter if it's intentional or not. I guess that I should get used to tucking in undershirts or something.

The reason that this issue is fresh in my mind? This morning, I felt a finger stroking that slender crescent of my back, between the hem of my shirt and my belt loops. I had been bending over to help Daisy out of her buggy, and there it was: thwick. I spun around, confused, and made eye contact with the Stroker. She asked, "Aren't you cold?" in German as she walked away.

I instantly thought of the conversation I had just two days ago with an American friend here, centering on how strangers love to get involved with getting our kids to the right temperature. But this was me! Was my fire-engine red wool coat - draped over the buggy for all to see - not clear that I could easily get warm if I were cold? It seemed perfectly clear.

My next thought was that this was a comment signaling disapproval: "Lady, you're showing too much skin!" I know, I know, I need an undershirt technique. But isn't this the continent where everyone sunbathes topless? Surely she wasn't offended by my lower back, and surely she wouldn't reach out and touch it if she was!

Not ten minutes later, I had another "touchy" incident while we were getting onto the tram. This particular tram involves steps to get on or off, which makes it hard with a child in a stroller. As usual, I had Daisy get out to walk herself up the stairs while I carried the empty stroller. She enjoys doing the stairs by herself but doesn't always do it quickly enough for tram drivers, so there's always some nudging. Anyway, this time, a stranger noticed that I was trying to tell Daisy to go quickly and reached down to carry her up the stairs! All day, poor Daisy has kept looking at me with solemn eyes, saying, "I wanted to do it myself," and repeating what I've told her: "She didn't know."

Normally, this unsolicited help from strangers reveals the beauty of the European concept of community to me, so far from the don't-pat-your-student-on-the-back-it's-harassment lawsuit culture of the US. However, today I started feeling a nostalgia for good old American personal space. Where people apologize for slamming into you, and even for slightly getting in your way. Where people would never pick up another person's child without asking, for fear of jail time. Where people pretend to ignore my shirt riding up.

As we got off the tram, Daisy carefully walked down the stairs as I towed the buggy. We crossed the street and saw Herr Pieper waving to us out his window. And wouldn't you know it, but by the time we made it in the door, he was waiting for Daisy with a handful of gummi bears. A little of my frustration melted away. All of today's happenings - a stranger told me to wear longer shirts, another stranger helped my child onto the tram, a neighbor met us at the door with candy - highlight the effect of noticing and engaging with people. It feels nice, sometimes....except when I want to be ignored and "do it myself."