I wasn't born in the South, and I never visited often as a child, but the twang of President Bush's accent assured me, at a young age, that Southerners must be friendly people.

In the South, people seem more trustworthy. The Southern drawl emits a hint of safety and familiar. However, no matter how many "Andy Griffith Show" episodes I've seen nor how many novels written in the Southern dialect such as "To Kill a Mockingbird," the South for me is never really familiar.

Over the past week, I spent a dream vacation on Hilton Head Island: a paradise resort in South Carolina.

Though South Carolina is a 14-hour drive from my hometown in Indiana, I didn't expect much of a cultural difference; after all, I wasn't leaving the country or anything. But my time in the South, those eight long leisurely days, taught me something I'd never expect: Sometimes friendly is unfamiliar.

I'm talking about Southern hospitality. The way people don't trudge or shove in a crowded grocery store or flip you off when you cut them off in traffic. People in the South are remarkably friendly, so much that it makes me uncomfortable.

My cousins and siblings took a boat out to the Marina off the coast of the island. As we returned to park our boat, a group of men and boys were readying their boats to set out. Our charter had barely touched the dock when one of the boys called over.

"How y'all doin?"

The gentle sound of his Southern twang rang out across the water.

"Good," my cousin replied.

"Y'all have fun?" he said. He was 8 or 9 years old, with a chubby stomach that jostled as he trotted along the dock.

"Yes we did."

"Y'all tube?" he asked, omitting so many words in this question that I had to stifle a laugh. Not one of mockery but one of appreciation for this dialect of English that is so different from my own.

We said, "no" we had not tubed but we did swim with dolphins.

"Ahh," he scowled with a wave of disinterest.

This was one of many interactions with Southerns, where casual conversation took me by surprise. But it was always friendly conversation, something unfamiliar to me.

Although it was different, I felt obliged to accept it as a cultural variation. I imagined what this little boy might experience in the North, a turned up nose, a glance of distaste, a cold shoulder? As we left the Marina I imagined how rude Northerners must appear to Southerners. It reminded me of my own experience of culture shock in France as an international student.

One afternoon I was lost in the subway tunnels and had gotten so turned around I couldn't find my way home. Too afraid to ask a stranger, I went up to the information desk. I asked if they spoke English, and they forced a small woman to the counter who rolled her eyes and looked incredibly inconvenienced to help me. She didn't speak English, and I awkwardly fumbled through a conversation. Eventually, I found my way home, but on that day, I decided that the French were indeed very rude people.

Now that I understand cultural differences I see that what one person perceives as rude may be completely customary to another. Rudeness is merely based off of the expectations of one person for another. Perhaps if we graciously respond to different perceptions of hospitality, we may be able to bridge the gaps in society.