My acceptance to the American Institute of International Studies in Jaipur, India came with an information packet. Inside it were dire warnings about the diseases that would inevitably kill us, and the insatiable men we would have to fight off with sticks because of our western clothing. It was a bit over the top.

When I arrived in India, the other girls and I eagerly perused bolts of cloth in the street side shops and placed orders with tailors for fancy new salwar kameez and churidar outfits worn by the majority of women in the area. Our orientation materials had instructed us to dress local to avoid sexual harassment or “eve teasing.” When the clothes were ready, we hit the dirt roads of our neighborhood and elbowed camels out of the way in a fashion parade. We thought we blended.

The clothes did little, however, to help us ward off threats when they occurred. In fact, the first tailor I went to was one of the two men in India who would shamelessly grope me. Each day my host mother would drape my dupatta around my shoulders like the proper young lady she considered me to be. All the same, each day my roommate and I walked to school greeted by shouts of “How much?” and “Eye bat karo?” which means “won’t you please bat your eyes at me honey?” This, coupled with the warnings of our teachers, made us female students skittish and defensive against any Indian man who so much as looked at us, which was a damn shame.

When you are a tiny minority from a far away place, living amongst an overwhelming crowd of locals, there is pressure to grow insular and critical of the differences of the culture that surround you. When you add the homesickness that comes with any long stay abroad, these responses can grow even more extreme.

It is lucky for us that India, and specifically the Indian men we were taught to fear, did not give up on us.

One night in Delhi I stood in the rain bargaining with several rickshaw drivers. I was dripping and shivering and trying to look stoic as they sized me up and calculated what Americans refer to as the “out of town tax,” the “foreigner tax,” the “skin color tax” and the “it’s raining and you’re screwed tax.” The world was out to get me, and I was an exhausted exchange student in a strange city at night. Exasperated, I told them their prices were unreasonable, and after smiling and yelling failed, I stormed off with my broken duffel bag leaking socks behind me.

Five minutes later, one of the drivers found me inside of the restaurant in which I had chosen to wait out the monsoon. I had dropped my wallet, full of enough rupees and American $20 bills to last me through the coming month. My cash was hanging out of the top of the wallet, singing a siren song to any hungry, poor, wretched or possibly just greedy soul who walked by. Instead of being taken, however, one of the rickshaw drivers had found it, seen my picture and brought it to me. Nothing was missing. I bought the men chai and continued bargaining with them until the rain stopped. When it did, the price went down and I rode away victorious, and determined not to let skepticism further rot my image of India.

When I returned to Jaipur and a man my age approached me in the mall I took a chance and actually spoke with him. He introduced me to his friends — both male and female — who let me ride on the back of their scooters. Together, this group of new friends and I went to parties, jogged in the park every morning and debated politics and modern values at the Chai stand, rain or shine. From them I learned to swear in Hindi, to be a generous host and to handle myself in a world without toilet paper.

Studying abroad should not be about the Americans you arrived with. It should be about the friends you leave behind when you return home.

Reach reporter Elizabeth Brady at features@dailyuw.com.