A car stopped near by and opened the passenger side door. 

“Get in.” It was Gianni. I hesitated. But what could I do? Keep wandering these unknown streets looking for a hostel? 

I got in the car and turned to look at him, tears burning my eyes. I forgot even the few words I knew to express how I felt. I lifted my hand and slapped Gianni across his face. 

I didn’t expect him to react; in Israel a man reacting to that would be immediately arrested. 

I felt sure of myself and, I admit, a bit proud. Now then, he will learn his lesson. No one treats me that way. 

Gianni looked at me, shocked. But before I knew what was happening, he lifted his hand and slapped me across the face with the back of it. 

ONE. TWO. THREE. FOUR. FIVE. SIX. SEVEN. EIGHT. 

I counted the slaps, feeling my back teeth loosening in my mouth and blood filling my cheeks.

I felt no pain, just shock, humiliation, shame. The burning on my cheeks was nothing compared to the tears burning holes in my eyes, everything moved in slow motion and I didn’t even think of reacting. 

I knew I deserved it. 

It serves me right! I am in a foreign country, I shouldn’t behave as if I was in Israel. I should have tried to explain how I felt, instead of using violence. Gianni wasn’t a sucker. In my eyes, at that moment, he earned my admiration and respect. 

Today, years later, I know why that happened. I know exactly what I saw in him in that moment. 

I saw my father, punishing me for not respecting my mother, telling me I wasn’t a good daughter and I deserved to be punished. I admired my father – he was a God to me. What he said meant a lot. 

Here was Gianni, doing exactly the same. Punishing me. Showing me who’s boss. Teaching me to respect him. 

I didn’t think he was wrong. I didn’t think any of this was wrong. All I felt was shame. I told myself I could have avoided it, I made him do it, I deserved to be punished. 

The few crumbs of self love that I had left were gone.