14 April 2011
Warning: DO NOT read this posting if you:
- have a weak stomach,
- have a romanticized ideal of me, Alex Moore, and want it to remain that way,
- have a poor sense of humor.
This time I do not blame my stomach (as I have in the past). This time I deserve the blame; my stomach can only be a good sport for so long.
Preface: for the last six years I’ve eaten very little animal products. Meat is completely out and milk, cheese, eggs, butter and anything dairy are rare exceptions in my at-home diet. But, alas, while traveling one needs to be flexible.
Flexibility for the sake of others, at times, causes problems for me.
It began yesterday at lunch. First pasta made with a butter, cheese and chunks of red meat cut throughout. Looking at it alone made me queasy, but again, I pride myself on flexibility (and I am ideologically in line with Italian farmers who produce for themselves and purchase local and organic; not supermarket products purchased from American factory farms). Next came rich eggs from the farm's very own hens, full of cheese. While I could have politely just had a “taste” of everything and eaten a ton of bread, I pushed my limits. I’ve had all of the aforementioned variables already on numerous occasions in the past two months: just not all added into the same equation. The rest of the day, my stomach reprimanded me and I felt a little nauseaus, but I pushed on. By dinner time (never before 21:30, here), all I wanted to do was go to sleep, but I hate to miss the opportunity to sit down and talk during a meal with Fabio and Margherita, and I told myself I should eat something, sickness is mental. I breathed a sigh of relief when I walked in and saw only boiled potatoes: just what my stomach needed. However, choosing to add ample amounts of fresh garlic and hot pepper may not have been (although, had my stomach been upset for bacterial reasons, both would have been good choices for natural antibacterial properties). When I was relatively in the clear, Margherita pulled a new cheese out of the refrigerator. Try this! My personal restraint collapsed, and that sliver of cheese was the straw that broke the camel's back.
Right away my stomach started feeling worse again. I got a little preemptive relief in the bathroom, but I could tell there would be more to come. I asked Margherita if she could leave the house unlocked, in case I needed to come in later, and got straight into bed.
I did not sleep at all; just rolling over made my stomach’s contents go on a roller coaster ride. Finally, I got up and went to the house. But in the dark, with everyone sleeping, the little bastard dogs had become full-fledged guard dogs. I put out my hand, talked to them, reasoned with them, but it was no use. Their eyes made it quite clear that tearing me apart was their number one prerogative should I enter. I stood there for several minutes calmly with my hand extended, but it was no use; they were barking too loudly to hear my attempts to calm them, and every time I took a step inside the fence, they lunged toward me like panthers. Finally, I retreated back to my little hut, hoping that I could wait until morning, but knowing subconsciously that there wasn’t a chance in the world. Finally, an hour later, the stomach rumbling came to a sharp climax, I grabbed the first bucket-like object that I could find—-which was, it pains me to say, a one liter yogurt cup I had been saving for travel leftovers—-and barely made it behind my tiny wooden hut before I dropped trow (thank god that cultural evolution has influenced elastic wasted pants for sleeping, with no bells and whistles, i.e. snaps or belts).
To say I had explosive diarrhea would not allow you to understand the gravity of the situation. Within what could not have been more than 1:10 seconds, the yogurt cup was full, but it kept on coming. There I was, squatting behind this wooden hut on the grass; the dogs barking at my commotion nearby; a much appreciated darkness that reduced [my awareness of] any splatter; with tears of laughter, frustration, pain, and cold in the corners of my eyes. And then? I couldn’t use grass: I was surrounded by thin blades and an Italian like bamboo, neither lending themselves well to either cleaning one surface or protecting the other. And to search much further I was paranoid, anyway. Two days ago, while I was weeding the strawberries, Fabio warned me that I needed gloves to weed one particular plant that was in abundance. He noted that it had a perfect toilet paper surface, and one could see it had perfectly adapted its poisonous surface as response to being used as toilet paper. He laughted that over its years it likely had given some people an unhappy surprise After several minutes of waiting (for what, I’m not quite sure: more to come? My butt to air dry?) I waddled back into my hut.
I tiptoe-waddled inside (hoping to not incite the dogs again/ hoping the dogs wouldn’t see me in my pants-less, half-squatting shame), reached into my bag and thanked god that I am an environmental packrat. Every time I am given a big napkin at a restaurant, at a meal, etc, it ends up not in the trash but in my pocket, then in my bag, waiting for some future use to extend its life and make its passing worthwhile (to throw away a full napkin after a little bit of oil and tomato sauce seems a needless waste of life). I found a bountiful assortment of used and crinkled napkins and a brown paper bag. Again, the lack of good lighting (and one or two other past experiences of parallel proportions) made me feel less filthy, and I jumped back into bed. But what to do about the mess out back? What do I do with the full yogurt cup and the paper bag in the morning? I could get up before everyone else wakes and sneak it all to the bathroom, but they wake early so I’d be sneaking in in the dark. And if getting into the house in the dark weren’t part of the problem, I wouldn’t be in this mess in the first place.
In the morning, with light and the rest of the family awake, the dogs nonchalantly let me pass (all I could think was to take them out back and rub their nose...). I went to the bathroom and let out another pound of water and materials rejected by my stomach (at this point I’m feeling nice and slender!) When I came out, Margherita asked, “how do you feel?” knowing I had gone to bed feeling a little off. I told her the whole story (leaving out the yogurt cup; I just couldn’t bring myself to include it, nor to thereafter explain my panicking, split-second reasoning behind it).
She laughed as if I had told her something nonchalant such as "finding a gecko under that rock gave me a good fright!", and said, as though she’d said many times before, “Well, get a shovel and some dirt...!” In shame, I went to see the damage in the light of day, emptied the contents of the yogurt cup (I’m still not sure what I’m going to do with that damn yogurt cup...its future remains undecided), and began the burial ceremony.
Today, after an unproductive morning I’ve thrown the towel in. Sitting, tea, and rice are the prescription for me today. In fact, I think I’ll go take a shower.
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