Gate 37: Como La Flor

This is a story that I published through Gate 37, a new online journal publishing writers who have a hard time answering the question, "Where do you come from?"

Como La Flor

http://gate-37.com/2014/11/10/como-la-flor/

Abruzzo, Mi Amore

Source: MyBellaVita.com

I am in love with Abruzzo. I've seen many places in the world, but only now can I say that I'm in love.

I was staying with friends in a small sea-side town called Cologna Spiaggia. Their economy is run by tourists, but there are few to be found. The bathers on the beach are nothing but locals who walk or cycle two minutes from their homes to greet the sea. I sat on the back of a rusted bike while my friend pedalled and waved at everyone we passed by. There are many words that could describe this gem of a place, but what sums it up is: family.

August 15 is Farragosto in Italy. It was introduced by emperor Augustus just a few years ago... in 18 BC. But it's still celebrated in Italy today because, well, why not? Accompanied by 40 of our closest friends from Cologna Spiaggia (about a quarter of the population), we boarded a bus to a nearby town that was hosting a festival, passed around bottles of Campari, and started belting classic songs of Abruzzo. 

When you drink Campari, apparently this is the kind of night you can look forward to:

Source: www.ScenicReflections.com

But I was with a bunch of sincerely wonderful lunatics and it was a bit more like this:

The night turned into a blur with many bottles of wine, dancing, singing, and finally ending up on the beach of Cologna at a Jurassic Park themed party at sunrise.

It was magical.

The next afternoon, we ventured to the beach with heavy heads and sore throats. But, it was necessary to be at the beach for the annual and cruel tradition of being in a delicate state, sunglasses on, possibly falling asleep to dreams of red Campari bottles clanking their glass necks on your skull, and a friend pouring a big bucket of cold water all over you.

This madness ensued for the day until my friend, Alberto, and I drove to his grandmother's house for a meal of spaghetti, lasagne, and meatballs, followed by shots of flourescent-coloured Limoncello and espresso.

The day was nearly done and nearly anything was making me laugh. Alberto's parents were trying to practice their English, and his father had found a new favourite word. Olive. And he'd say it randomly, with emphasis on the "O" like it was a big piece of cake going into his mouth, and breath the "live", finishing with a chuckle of pure satisfaction. And I could relate. Because it was was indeed a time of complete satisfaction, contentment, and experiencing a group of people who I now consider a second family.

Dreams of Salt and Sandy, Sandy Earth

Source: MSNBCmedia.msn.com

I'm in Ireland. The month is May. And I've had so little sun that my skin actually aches from lack of vitamin D. I would eat sand right now just to have some semblance of parchment. 

My first solution to this problem was calling my friend Paul and getting him to repeat his story of when he and his friend, Roger, accompanied a Dutch man on a camping trip near Dubai. As you would do, they drank for the entire evening and fell asleep in the chilly desert night, only to wake up inside a tent nearly 45 degrees Celsius! But it wasn't the heat that woke them up. It was the sound of the hammered Dutch man "yipp-yipping" on the back of a wild camel he'd bare saddled. 

Source: DailyMail.co.uk

The Dutch man had lived in Dubai for 5 years at that point and was well equipped to handle the ensuing head pain mixed with the heat, while the two Irish lads, Paul and Roger, barely remembered their own names.

The story seemed to seemed to have a knock-on effect in aiding my lack of sun. But I needed more...

For anyone who hasn't seen this video, watch it now and also look up other car tricks that men do in Saudi Arabia. It's kind of the only fun there is to be had there.

I also mean "car tricks that men do". Women aren't allowed driving licenses in Saudi, and they'd be in big trouble if they got caught behind the wheel. Even if you Google "fun things to do in Saudi Arabia," the second item that will pop up is an article from Listverse.com, "Top Ten Everyday Things Banned In Saudi Arabia."

Unfortunately women will have to be like the Dutch man and stick to the camels, while avoiding happenstances like this:

Source: HuffingtonPost.com

Alas, I was able to calm my frustration with the Irish weather and come to terms with milk being my only vitamin D source. I should have taken heed, though, when Liam O'Flaherty said, "I was born on a storm-swept rock and hate the soft growth of sun-baked lands where there is no frost in men's bones."

Keripik Paru Ketchup Bath

www.MightySweet.com

They called it "crackers" when five grey and yellow-dusted medallions were placed on my plate, half-covered with abandoned rice kernels and a large dollop of ketchup. It was Keripik Paru, or fried cow lung. I specifically did not use the ketchup. No one else used the ketchup and I was the only non-Indonesian at the party.

I was invited to learn a dance from Betawi, or the original name of Jakarta, Indonesia, called Yapong.

The dance is performed to a traditional gamelan orchestra who chant Ya-Ya-Ya-Ya in celebration of Jakarta's birthday. The dance was originally performed in 1977 for Jakarta's 405th year.

I thought the party would be full of flitty wrist movements and delicious tea. I thought it would be something like this:

Source: FromBaliToBala.com

But it was something more like this:

There were kids running around, women dancing on tables in the middle of the afternoon, and a small dog humping anything he could get his underside onto. Nobody really gave a shit. I was having a great time... until they brought out the Keripik Paru. 

I'll preface by saying that I'm quite adventurous as eaters go. But when I tasted the fried cow lung, I felt like I had put an old piece of leather that had been soaking in snake blood for ten years in my mouth. I probably turned green in front of my host, which is something I'd never done.

The woman who invited me smiled as I swallowed and said, "It is good, yes? Go on, eat it all!"

As she turned away and began dancing with the ladies, I felt horribly ill. I began to wonder where the cow lung was on its journey down my esophagus, and how I could stop it. I came to terms with the fact that I couldn't prevent it from entering my digestive system, but I had the power to stop any more from making the invasion.

I took a seat in a corner and stared at my plate in horror. There was no place to go. Just four medallions of cow lung and a dollop of ketchup.

The ketchup. Yes. That was the answer. My escape. I slowly pushed the lung toward a red sanctuary. As it reached the edge, it seemed like it would make it through. The ketchup was able to cover nearly all the evidence! I had saved myself and my social reputation.

"Mommy says not to play with your food!" a child voice shouted at my side.

She was a small one, not older than three, and she had caught me in the act. As she stared at me with black, gaping eyes, I laughed and said, "Oh, you silly. I LOVE putting cow lung in ketchup!"

She continued to stare as I grabbed all four marinated pieces and placed them on my tongue. A huge grin came across her face and she kissed my cheek before running off like a wild-ling.

I had been caught by an innocent bystander and there was nothing I could do but swallow. And I did. In one, thick, ketchup-y, gulp. 

The rest of the afternoon became a hallucination. Maybe it was the cow lung or my loss of inhibition. But I believe the Harlem Shake did commence and we all performed our own dance for Jakarta.

(A recipe for the Indonesian cow lung crackers can be found here at IndonesiaEats.com.)