The Secret Letters of the Monk Who Sold His Ferrari by Robin Sharma Page B

book an earlier flight, but with all of Ayame’s kind attention, a request like that now seemed a little rude.
    “I was happy to do it. I’m quite fascinated, actually, about these little codes of behavior. As Julian may have told you, I have traveled quite extensively, and I always pay attention, in every place I go, to all the unspoken customs, the shared understanding of how things should be done.”
    “You are clearly more observant than I am,” I said. “The onlything I noticed in Istanbul was that Ahmet never touched anything with his left hand.”
    “In many countries, one particular hand is used only for any kind of dirty work. So you would not touch food or another person with that hand.”
    That was probably it, I thought.
    “The interesting thing,” said Ayame, “is that the rules we have been raised with seem natural, obvious, logical even. It is not until we start seeing our behavior through the eyes of another culture that we begin to question it or to wonder.
    “For example,” she continued, “I have read that the tradition of shaking hands originated as a way of showing someone that you were holding no weapons, and so intended no harm or injury to the one you greeted. So why today do I walk into a conference in New York and put out my hand? Do I really mean to show that I’m not carrying a dagger?”
    That made me laugh.
    “But how some customs start is really not so important. The importance of etiquette, manners, rules, is to make it easier for us to interact with one another. Our shared behaviors make us comfortable; they are ways to show respect to one another. They are all about how we make one another feel. Our daily behaviors broadcast our deepest beliefs.”
    “But sometimes it gets confusing,” I said. “Take opening the door for a woman. There was a time when no gentleman would walk through a door in front of a woman. You had to hold the door open for her and pass through only after she had gone. But I’m not so sure I’m supposed to do that now.”
    “Yes, that is one of the rules that are changing in the West,” said Ayame. “It was meant as a sign of respect, was it not? Butthen some women began to feel that this habit was patronizing, that it suggested they were weak, that they needed help with something as simple as a door. Suddenly, it is unclear whether this custom is polite or not.”
    “I usually just try to hold doors open for everyone now,” I said. “So I don’t single women out.”
    “That is one solution,” said Ayame. “Actually, the last time I was in Los Angeles, I noticed that sometimes men held doors for women and sometimes women held doors for men, or other women. It seems as if many people have rethought the etiquette of door-holding.”
    We had circled around the neighborhood now for a half an hour. The streets looked pretty in the dark—lights shining through rice-paper screens on the windows of some houses, golden lanterns hanging outside others, the moon glittering off the glazed tiled roofs of a few buildings.
    We turned down a small lane, and I realized that we had entered the far end of Ayame’s street. I was exhausted, but not entirely sure that I would be able to sleep. Nevertheless, I was looking forward to returning to my peaceful room.
    As we entered the ryokan lobby, Ayame said, “Let me give you Julian’s parcel tonight.” She led me through the lobby to a door at the far end. I followed her and found myself once again on the wooden veranda, overlooking the garden. A few lamps hung under the eaves, and a small spotlight shone on the bubbling fountain; a few more lights cast bright beams on the statuary. The garden looked otherworldly, magical.
    “Please sit,” Ayame said, pointing to a small teak bench. “I will be back shortly.” Then she disappeared into the inn.
    She returned a minute later, holding a small parcel in two hands. It was wrapped in what looked like thick handmade paper and tied with silk cord. She held it out