Episode 2- When in Rome and Naked Pictures of My Wife
Before you even ask, the answers are: Yes, I have some and no, you cannot see them.
The topic for this column is engaging in local custom. Everyone has heard the saying, “When in Rome, do as the Romans do”. I believe this is one of the tenets of travel. This is a must do, this doing stuff like Romans. I’m not talking about conquering half the world or encouraging crucifixion. The Romans did some stuff that we are better off without. I’m speaking metaphorically about jumping in to the local culture. After all, why go somewhere new and exciting only to sit around doing the same thing you do back home? Travel is supposed to be broadening, it’s supposed to make you grow by exposing you to new things, such as new foods, new music, the odd intimacy infection (yes, some growth comes with a mild burning sensation). My point is, whatever you do, get out there and experience your location, in any and every way possible.
For example, my wife and I went to Ecuador as part of a trip with her graduate school cohort. We spent ten days in the rainforests of Ecuador, under the tutelage of an actual Ecuadorian shaman. The shaman had dedicated his life to maintaining the customs and traditions of his people, who back in the day relied on these customs to live in the jungle. Before the arrival of the Europeans, the Ecuadorians believed that there were spirits who inhabited the rainforest. There were spirits in the trees, in the plants, in the animals and in the waters. Different legends were passed down to teach each new generation how to hunt, how to forage, and in general, how to survive. Once the Europeans arrived, they colonized and converted the native Ecuadorians to the European ways. Catholicism, brought primarily by the Spanish, prohibited the worship of any other God than the “one true” Catholic God and so the traditions of the rainforest, with its animal and plant spirits, soon faded away to time.
Our shaman was dedicated to preserving his Ecuadorian culture. During our time with him, we learned how to make rope from roots. We learned how to use that rope to scale a waterfall. We learned which plants were good for eating, which ones would kill you and which ones could hide you if a big-ass tiger came by and considered you for an amuse bouche (I say “amuse bouche” because I can never remember where to put the apostrophe in “hors d’oeuvre”. God-damned French). We shot blow darts, painted our faces for thanksgiving ceremonies and literally swung from vines. All of this occurred without signing a waiver, no netting and nary a single safety harness. This was pretty different than the first time I played paintball, in which the word “death” was mentioned on a single page waiver 17 times. We’ll discuss lawyers in a future column. It will be filled with venom toward the more litigious members (read “assholes”) of our society. I can’t get into that now because it will put me in a foul mood and I want to get back to the Ecuadorian Shaman. Sorry for the digression…
Engaging in the local culture as I describe above sounds like a blast, and it was. But sometimes you wander into stuff that may not be as fun as playing Tarzan. And just because it isn’t all Disney World and Italian cafes, you don’t get to take a pass. After all, rules is rules. One evening, as we were gathering for a group dinner, we smelled the amazing aroma of a boar being roasted on an open spit. There were vegetables and fruits to go along with said boar, who was giving it his all so we could be well fed. There were nuts and roots and a fermented fruit drink that was stronger than most stuff you ever drank in college. Walking through the camp, I spied one of our hosts carrying a basket to the cooking area.
“Hey, Johnny, can I help?” I asked.
Johnny smiled in reply, “Gracias. Put this on the table near the stove”
He handed me the basket, which was sealed at the top. “Is this more food for tonight?”
Johnny answered, “Yes, this is a delicacy of my ancestors. We catch them at the banks of the river.”
And I thought, “Hey, cool, we’re going to have some really good fish. Maybe some kind of mollusk.” I walked over to the table and opened the basket. It did not contain fish or clams or anything close. Instead it was full of live, writhing slugs. They were about the length and width of half of a Snickers bar. Imagine a bunch of maggots on some old meat in mid-August, only with girth.
Uhhhhhh, Johnny…”, I stammered as I stepped back from the basket.
He looked up from the pot he was stirring and laughed, “What’s wrong? You have never eaten slugs before? They are quite good. We cook them in the pan on the stove. You will like them.”
I looked from him, to the slugs and back at him. “Fuck that,” was all I could say.
Pretty soon, the rest of our crew caught wind of the slugs. As you can imagine, there wasn’t a hell of a lot of enthusiasm to try the “delicacy”. There was even less enthusiasm when our hosts started to cook them by tossing them live into a pan on the stove. The slugs hit the pan with a sizzle, squirming around until their outer shell crisped. The cook covered them in spices.
I would like to say I stepped up, ate the slugs and declared them not only delicious but also a testament to my willingness to try new things. I would like to say that. In truth I actually did eat half of a slug. After some taunting from the group (and my evil wife), I grabbed one from the pan and took a bite. As I mentioned, they were about three inches long and had a crispy outer shell. Initially, it was like biting into a thin nacho chip. It was actually quite good, very crunchy and nicely seasoned. Unfortunately, that was only the outside. The inside of the shell, the actual body of the slug, had liquified while being cooked…and proceeded to ooze down my gullet. It tasted exactly like what you would expect liquid slug to taste like. Have you ever bitten into a chocolate cherry cordial? This had the same sensation, but there was no chocolate or cherry syrup. Only slug-flavored goo that I got to enjoy as it slid slowly down my throat. When in Rome, right? So, yes, I ate a damned Ecuadorian slug. And this is how I came to know that the native Ecuadorians are not offended if you vomit at one of their dinner parties.
Now, what does all of this have to do with naked pictures of my wife? Or Rome? Or however the hell I started this story? Well, Kelly is as game to join in the local customs as I am (unless it involves slugs, then she’s a coward). During a trip to Sardegna, Italy, we spent an afternoon at a topless beach. Kel had gone topless at European beaches before, so this time was no big deal for her. It was a big deal to me. It’s always a big deal to me. I enjoy it greatly when she embraces this European custom. And it was a HUGE deal for the three Italian boys hanging out down the beach from us (I should say TWO huge deals, but that seems a bit gratuitous). Suspiciously, those kids spent an inordinate amount of time strolling back and forth by where we were laying (I don’t tell Kelly this stuff, it makes her all uppity). It was clear that the boys were enjoying the attractive blonde, sunbathing topless in the Italian sun. I can’t blame them, so was I. That would be the end of the story except that a few years later we were at her Dad’s house for a birthday party. We were in the downstairs bar enjoying drinks. Kelly’s aunt was scrolling through photos of Italy on my phone when she came across our Sardegna trip. Of course, these included the pictures of Kelly on the beach with her girls proudly on display. Her aunt lets out a loud “Whoa!” Kelly’s dad looks up to see what all the noise is about and Grandma starts cackling, “Let me see, let me see”. I end up wrestling with Aunt Karen to get my phone back, knocking her off her barstool, all the while shouting out “Nothing to see here, nothing to see here! Pat, pour me another glass of wine.” So, while partaking in the local culture makes traveling wonderful, it can also make family get-togethers really awkward.
Take care,
Den
