Sunday, September 17, 2006
20 Tips for a Successful San Diego Visit
Although I’ve been back from my trip to the States for over a month now, I still think about how much I enjoyed visiting my family and friends and gettting reaquainted with my home town. The time has also given me a chance to think about some tips and advice for other former San Diegans who have lived in Sweden for more than five years and are planning to come home for a visit.
Tip #1: Always remember that the turn signal, used in Sweden to signal your intention of changing lanes, is completely meaningless in San Diego, where this pretty little blinking light is considered to be just a pretty little blinking light and is ignored by everyone. Alarmingly, only a 100 miles away in Los Angeles, it is considered a sign of agression and challenges other drivers to speed up and prevent you from changing lanes altogether, forcing you to miss your exit. And if you happen to have a rental car sticker affixed to your car while using your turn signal, you may just find yourself run off the road!
Tip #2: If you are driving a rental car, be careful with it. After all, it’s not really yours. But, if you feel that you absolutely have to acquire a big whopping dent in the fender just to see how many accident reports and insurance forms you’ll have to fill out when you return the car, at least try to be in the car when it happens. Somehow, noticing the bunged-up fender as you return to a parking lot to fetch the car is just not as dramatic or exciting as attending the actual event.
Tip #3: If your husband isn't with you on the trip because the friggin’ hedonist decided to go to Rhodes, Greece instead of visiting his inlaws, keep in touch via SMS. It’s not nearly as expensive as a long distance phone call, and you can revert to baby talk and childish spelling to communicate quicker.
Tip #4: Don’t worry about your husband getting bored sitting there in Greece all by his lonesome. Greece is, of course, the cradle of democracy and philosophy, and home to some of the most spectacular historical sites in the world. He’s certain to be soaking up the culture, and will eagerly SMS you about the thought-provoking experiences he’s having, so you can share his experiences:
I visit H20 prk.
I slide down bg slide, I no skerd.
I get bg wedgy.
Tip #5: Keep your ears open for the latest slang, especially if you frequently find yourself knowing less American slang than most Swedes you know. If you listen closely to your brother, you may pick up such gems as “kookstick,” which means an excentric person, and “banana hammock,” which is a very brief mens’ undergarmet (use your imagination). Picking up new slang is one thing. Figuring out how to work your new vocabulary into a conversation is another. Just try weaving “banana hammock” into a conversation during afternoon break!
Tip #6: When your mother has reached the age where it takes her 30 minutes to toddle 10 feet, resist the temptation to walk beside her and pretend you are announcing a horse race: . . .And it’s Mom, careening around the last curve like greased lightning!. . .She’s far and away in the lead!. . .She’s hit the straightaway at full speed now!. . . Coming down the home stretch!!! It’s about then you’ll get wacked with the cane.
Tip #7: Despite everything you hear about how unhealthy American food has become over the years, it is simply not true. You’ll be able to find a bountiful harvest of fresh, wholesome salads on most any menu. The 300 candied walnuts, pound of sweet muffins, and sludgy, maonnaise-based dressing that come with the salad are just there to weigh the plate down so it doesn’t blow away.
Tip #8: Don’t worry that your husband won’t be able to manage by himself on the beaches of Greece alone. Of course he can! He’s an adult, for heaven’s sake! Don’t let him make you feel sorry for him with SMSs such as this:
Wnt to beach.
Cudnt reach all my bak w/sunblck.
Got werd snbrn. Bak & sholdrs
look like Rorschach test.
Tip #9: No matter how things were when you left San Diego, be aware that life has improved significantly over the past several years to the point where San Diegans, and possibly Americans in general, have absolutely no problems whatsoever. You’ll be pleased to know that all problems have been replaced with issues! For example, instead of having problems in school, a kid has issues in school. People have issues to work out, or issues with drugs or alcohol. Given Americans’ obsession with euphamisms, I guess that’s OK, but somehow, Houston, we have an issue! just doesn’t have the right ring to it.
Tip #10: The correct answer to the question, “What kind of restaurant do you want to go to tonight?” is “Mexican.” That answer remains correct for the first four evenings, and even for a couple of lunches. On the fifth evening, however, the correct answer is, “Restaurant? Actually, I was hoping we could swing by the pharmacy and pick up some GasX.”
Tip #11: If you are invited to a Friday night sing-along at the beach by your cousin and you tell her you can’t sing, you’ll be issued a kazoo instead. Be aware, though, that your cousin’s husband will also be playing the kazoo. He’s been practicing, and he’ll sound like the Herb Alpert. You’ll sound like a fog horn.
Tip #12: Hang on to your kazoo. It may come in handy when you’re stuck in heavy traffic and need something to keep you amused while you listen to the radio. Songs that are good with kazoo accompanyment include “Bohemian Radsody,” “Take it easy” (you play backup on that one), and almost any Chicago song (yes, I tested these.) Be discrete when you play, however. A kazoo can be mistaken for a crack pipe if you happen to be stuck in traffic next to a police car.
Tip #13: Don’t take the enthusastic greetings shouted to you from across the store by clothing boutique personnel as a sign that they are genuinely excited to see you. There’s a simple explanation: It’s a cheap asset protection technique wrapped in phoney friendliness. They just want you to know that they know you have entered the store so you won’t steal anything. What is harder to explain is Nathan the waiter, who introduced himself (not unusual in the States) and then wanted me to introduce myself, too (very unusual anywhere)! I’m still trying to figure that one out. Maybe if I were to steal a salt shaker, he could tell the police, “Karen did it!”
Tip #14: I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: Be prepared for chit-chat from strangers any time, anywhere. For example, you may be asked for sightseeing tips in a public restroom, or you could be beseiged by a boy in the botanical gardens who wants to discuss carniverous plants. Just smile and go along with it—these people aren’t dangerous, they’re just American. If you feel uncomfortable about it, console yourself with the fact that you’ll be back home in Sweden soon, where you will be completely ignored by everyone.
Tip #15: If you get some American cash to take with you, be sure to check it thoroughly before you go to the States. For one thing, you’re used to using Swedish crowns now, so even the idea of American money may seem almost “foreign” to you. American coins, for example, feel thinner and lighter compared to Swedish coins. Furthermore, the United States Treasury Department has actually changed the design of some of the bills, making them a sort of parchment color. The time to marvel at these changes is in the privacy of your own home, and not sitting in a restaurant with your friends. When it’s time to pay the bill, you don’t want to embarass them by feeling up all the quarters as if you had discovered a new tactile thrill or by holding a $10 bill in the air and exclaiming loudly, “What’s this? Is this a real 10-spot? Who are they trying to fool!”
Tip #16: If your brother is a cop in the horse patrol, it is OK to pet the horse, but ask permission first. The animal is after all, an actual law enforcement officer, as evidenced by the badge attached to one of the straps on his riding tack. Do not under any circumstances, however, ask any questions about how the equine officer is cared for. You will receive detailed information about the hygeine routine for Officer Horse’s hindquarters--information with a high “Yuck”-factor that will not significantly enrich your life.
Tip #17: When you make a nostalgic visit to the local pub where you had your first drink so many years ago and the drunk standing next to you says, "Check this out," and starts shouting to the singer, “Hey! Play Bon Jovi! Play Bon Jovi!” but it’s an Irish pub with an Irish singer singing Irish folk songs, the nostalgic moment is ruined. It’s time to leave.
Tip #18: You will frequently meet Americans who have the impression that Sweden is a country full of of loose morals and gorgeous women. Before you choose to enlighten these people, try to find out if they perceive you as falling into one or both of these categories by virtue of the fact that you have chosen Sweden as your home. Then make your decision accordingly.
Tip #19: If you have an American friend of Swedish ancestery who is gluten intolerant, it is a nice gesture to bring her as many gluten-free goods as you can from Sweden. Since this genetically-transmitted illness has its origins in the Nordic countries, such goods are much more plentiful in Sweden than they are in the US. It is not cool, however, to eat handfull after handfull of the gluten-free cookies yourself if she happens to open a box to have with coffee.
Tip #20: If you plan on visiting your former boss and his wife, and you can’t decide what kind of present you should take for their adorable two-year old daughter, may I suggest a Pippi Longstockings doll. The child’s parents will be thrilled that you introduced their daughter to a character with no parents who does exactly as she pleases, and who probably abuses steroids to boot.
Well, I could go on forever (heck, I think I already have gone on forever), with helpful tips, but I hope you get the idea. With a little thought and planning, you, too, can have an enjoyable visit to the Old Country.
Tip #1: Always remember that the turn signal, used in Sweden to signal your intention of changing lanes, is completely meaningless in San Diego, where this pretty little blinking light is considered to be just a pretty little blinking light and is ignored by everyone. Alarmingly, only a 100 miles away in Los Angeles, it is considered a sign of agression and challenges other drivers to speed up and prevent you from changing lanes altogether, forcing you to miss your exit. And if you happen to have a rental car sticker affixed to your car while using your turn signal, you may just find yourself run off the road!
Tip #2: If you are driving a rental car, be careful with it. After all, it’s not really yours. But, if you feel that you absolutely have to acquire a big whopping dent in the fender just to see how many accident reports and insurance forms you’ll have to fill out when you return the car, at least try to be in the car when it happens. Somehow, noticing the bunged-up fender as you return to a parking lot to fetch the car is just not as dramatic or exciting as attending the actual event.
Tip #3: If your husband isn't with you on the trip because the friggin’ hedonist decided to go to Rhodes, Greece instead of visiting his inlaws, keep in touch via SMS. It’s not nearly as expensive as a long distance phone call, and you can revert to baby talk and childish spelling to communicate quicker.
Tip #4: Don’t worry about your husband getting bored sitting there in Greece all by his lonesome. Greece is, of course, the cradle of democracy and philosophy, and home to some of the most spectacular historical sites in the world. He’s certain to be soaking up the culture, and will eagerly SMS you about the thought-provoking experiences he’s having, so you can share his experiences:
I visit H20 prk.
I slide down bg slide, I no skerd.
I get bg wedgy.
Tip #5: Keep your ears open for the latest slang, especially if you frequently find yourself knowing less American slang than most Swedes you know. If you listen closely to your brother, you may pick up such gems as “kookstick,” which means an excentric person, and “banana hammock,” which is a very brief mens’ undergarmet (use your imagination). Picking up new slang is one thing. Figuring out how to work your new vocabulary into a conversation is another. Just try weaving “banana hammock” into a conversation during afternoon break!
Tip #6: When your mother has reached the age where it takes her 30 minutes to toddle 10 feet, resist the temptation to walk beside her and pretend you are announcing a horse race: . . .And it’s Mom, careening around the last curve like greased lightning!. . .She’s far and away in the lead!. . .She’s hit the straightaway at full speed now!. . . Coming down the home stretch!!! It’s about then you’ll get wacked with the cane.
Tip #7: Despite everything you hear about how unhealthy American food has become over the years, it is simply not true. You’ll be able to find a bountiful harvest of fresh, wholesome salads on most any menu. The 300 candied walnuts, pound of sweet muffins, and sludgy, maonnaise-based dressing that come with the salad are just there to weigh the plate down so it doesn’t blow away.
Tip #8: Don’t worry that your husband won’t be able to manage by himself on the beaches of Greece alone. Of course he can! He’s an adult, for heaven’s sake! Don’t let him make you feel sorry for him with SMSs such as this:
Wnt to beach.
Cudnt reach all my bak w/sunblck.
Got werd snbrn. Bak & sholdrs
look like Rorschach test.
Tip #9: No matter how things were when you left San Diego, be aware that life has improved significantly over the past several years to the point where San Diegans, and possibly Americans in general, have absolutely no problems whatsoever. You’ll be pleased to know that all problems have been replaced with issues! For example, instead of having problems in school, a kid has issues in school. People have issues to work out, or issues with drugs or alcohol. Given Americans’ obsession with euphamisms, I guess that’s OK, but somehow, Houston, we have an issue! just doesn’t have the right ring to it.
Tip #10: The correct answer to the question, “What kind of restaurant do you want to go to tonight?” is “Mexican.” That answer remains correct for the first four evenings, and even for a couple of lunches. On the fifth evening, however, the correct answer is, “Restaurant? Actually, I was hoping we could swing by the pharmacy and pick up some GasX.”
Tip #11: If you are invited to a Friday night sing-along at the beach by your cousin and you tell her you can’t sing, you’ll be issued a kazoo instead. Be aware, though, that your cousin’s husband will also be playing the kazoo. He’s been practicing, and he’ll sound like the Herb Alpert. You’ll sound like a fog horn.
Tip #12: Hang on to your kazoo. It may come in handy when you’re stuck in heavy traffic and need something to keep you amused while you listen to the radio. Songs that are good with kazoo accompanyment include “Bohemian Radsody,” “Take it easy” (you play backup on that one), and almost any Chicago song (yes, I tested these.) Be discrete when you play, however. A kazoo can be mistaken for a crack pipe if you happen to be stuck in traffic next to a police car.
Tip #13: Don’t take the enthusastic greetings shouted to you from across the store by clothing boutique personnel as a sign that they are genuinely excited to see you. There’s a simple explanation: It’s a cheap asset protection technique wrapped in phoney friendliness. They just want you to know that they know you have entered the store so you won’t steal anything. What is harder to explain is Nathan the waiter, who introduced himself (not unusual in the States) and then wanted me to introduce myself, too (very unusual anywhere)! I’m still trying to figure that one out. Maybe if I were to steal a salt shaker, he could tell the police, “Karen did it!”
Tip #14: I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: Be prepared for chit-chat from strangers any time, anywhere. For example, you may be asked for sightseeing tips in a public restroom, or you could be beseiged by a boy in the botanical gardens who wants to discuss carniverous plants. Just smile and go along with it—these people aren’t dangerous, they’re just American. If you feel uncomfortable about it, console yourself with the fact that you’ll be back home in Sweden soon, where you will be completely ignored by everyone.
Tip #15: If you get some American cash to take with you, be sure to check it thoroughly before you go to the States. For one thing, you’re used to using Swedish crowns now, so even the idea of American money may seem almost “foreign” to you. American coins, for example, feel thinner and lighter compared to Swedish coins. Furthermore, the United States Treasury Department has actually changed the design of some of the bills, making them a sort of parchment color. The time to marvel at these changes is in the privacy of your own home, and not sitting in a restaurant with your friends. When it’s time to pay the bill, you don’t want to embarass them by feeling up all the quarters as if you had discovered a new tactile thrill or by holding a $10 bill in the air and exclaiming loudly, “What’s this? Is this a real 10-spot? Who are they trying to fool!”
Tip #16: If your brother is a cop in the horse patrol, it is OK to pet the horse, but ask permission first. The animal is after all, an actual law enforcement officer, as evidenced by the badge attached to one of the straps on his riding tack. Do not under any circumstances, however, ask any questions about how the equine officer is cared for. You will receive detailed information about the hygeine routine for Officer Horse’s hindquarters--information with a high “Yuck”-factor that will not significantly enrich your life.
Tip #17: When you make a nostalgic visit to the local pub where you had your first drink so many years ago and the drunk standing next to you says, "Check this out," and starts shouting to the singer, “Hey! Play Bon Jovi! Play Bon Jovi!” but it’s an Irish pub with an Irish singer singing Irish folk songs, the nostalgic moment is ruined. It’s time to leave.
Tip #18: You will frequently meet Americans who have the impression that Sweden is a country full of of loose morals and gorgeous women. Before you choose to enlighten these people, try to find out if they perceive you as falling into one or both of these categories by virtue of the fact that you have chosen Sweden as your home. Then make your decision accordingly.
Tip #19: If you have an American friend of Swedish ancestery who is gluten intolerant, it is a nice gesture to bring her as many gluten-free goods as you can from Sweden. Since this genetically-transmitted illness has its origins in the Nordic countries, such goods are much more plentiful in Sweden than they are in the US. It is not cool, however, to eat handfull after handfull of the gluten-free cookies yourself if she happens to open a box to have with coffee.
Tip #20: If you plan on visiting your former boss and his wife, and you can’t decide what kind of present you should take for their adorable two-year old daughter, may I suggest a Pippi Longstockings doll. The child’s parents will be thrilled that you introduced their daughter to a character with no parents who does exactly as she pleases, and who probably abuses steroids to boot.
Well, I could go on forever (heck, I think I already have gone on forever), with helpful tips, but I hope you get the idea. With a little thought and planning, you, too, can have an enjoyable visit to the Old Country.
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
Fall Celebration
Well, it’s been a while, hasn’t it? I was going to write a bit about my trip to San Diego, but first I want to tell you this seasonal tale. . .
There it sat, staring me down with its spherical, mindless, coal-black eyes. Its bloody-black body armor, complete with menacing spines, made it look like some sinister medieval jousting champion. I considered carefully what I was about to do. One false move, and the repulsive creature would stick me, leaving a painful, bloody wound. My thoughts raced as I calculated the best method of attack. The creature’s many spindly, segmented legs looked like they belonged on some prehistoric insect. Brown-tinged briny liquid seeped from under its formidable armor and pooled around its gaping claws. Revolted by the creature, I was losing my nerve. I had to do this quickly, or not at all. . .Slowly, as if I feared that it would recoil from the approach of my hand, I reached for it, hesitated, and felt the sudden jab. . .
“Just pick the thing up and tear its tail off! It’s just a crawdad, for cry’n out loud!”
“Ow!” I rubbed my side in the spot where my husband, KA, had just elbowed me in the ribs.
“But they’re so. . .insect-like! They remind me of spiders. . .and I HATE spiders!”
“But you’ve eaten them before. You always said that you liked them. . .”
Yes, it’s true. I do like the taste of crawfish. The Swedes, do, too. Swedish royalty has been enjoying them since the mid-1500’s. Over the centuries, the custom of consuming these arthropods, which actually are related to spiders and other multi-legged creepy-crawlies, spread throughout the masses as a celebration of the coming of Fall.
Last Saturday night, KA and I joined the masses at a traditional Swedish crayfish party. The hosts had made sure that all the right trappings were in place. . .a big tent in the garden with huge paper lanterns in the shape of smiling full moons hanging overhead, lots of bread and cheese, plenty of brännvin (which I’m convinced actually means ‘spiced kerosene’ in Swedish) and, of course, the delicacy of honor, the bottom-feeding mud bug, as crawfish are sometimes called in the US.
Liking the taste of crawfish is one thing. Even if I can overlook their prehistoric bug-like appearance, it’s how you have to get at them that really bothers me. You basically have to rip them apart with your bare hands! I mean, what other food do civilized people eat that way? Imagine someone inviting you for dinner, handing you a whole cooked chicken--head, feet, feathers, and all, and saying, “Have at it! Bon Appetit!” It amounts to the same thing doesn’t it? Of course, all of the grocery stores sell crawfish tails in little plastic tubs, all properly peeled and deveined. Believe me, I’d opt for this sanitized version if it wouldn’t get me laughed out of the country. After all, a genuine Swedish crawfish party is not only about merriment—it’s about dismemberment.
As it is, I can’t stomach much more than removing and peeling the tail. For me, that’s the only edible part. There are a lot of people, though, who have a much broader view of what is edible—such as the guy I ended up sitting next to.
While KA was busy chatting up the woman on his left, the guy on my right was telling me all about his favorite brands of beer while he proceeded to completely dismantel a crawfish as if he were a little boy disassembling a snap-together toy. I felt a swell of nausea, just like I felt back in high school biology lab when we had to slice up the frogs in formaldehyde. Yes, this dinner was quickly turning into a dissection. And once the guy had the creature in bits and pieces, each individual one received his special attention.
“THHHLLOOOUURP!”
Oh no! He’s sucking the. . .the. . .contents out of the creature’s head! I looked away, trying to hide my disgust.
“You know how making love in a canoe is similar to American beer?” he asked between sloppy slurps.
“Yeah, I’ve heard that one. They're both fu . . .”
"Attention, everyone!" I was interrupted by a heavy-set man with a red face sitting at the other side of the long table. He had picked up his copy of the song leaflet we had all received upon arrival. Looking very much like a preacher at a tent revival meeting, he began leading us enthusiastically in a song extolling the virtues of crawfish. The song ended with everyone scooping up their brännvin glasses with sticky hands and yelling “Skål!”
“They're both damn close to water!” My table companion delivered the punch line of his joke as he slammed down his empty glass and roared with laughter. He then began scooping orangish goo, which he called 'butter', out of the now unrecognizable animal’s body cavity and licking it off his pinky finger.
I quickly poured myself another shot of brännvin, not because I liked it, but to numb my senses. Not only was this guy eating entrails, he totally fumbled the punch line of the most over-told joke in all of Sweden!
When he finally did get around to peeling the only truly edible part—the tail, he ceremoniously slit out the muddy vein with his thumbnail and dangled it in front of my nose.
“Intestine!” he announced proudly, as if presenting a newborn child he had brought straight from its mother’s womb.
YUCK! I fought to stifle a gag as the red-faced man began the umpteenth crawfish song of the evening.
By now, the carnage was almost complete. Empty, broken exoskeletons were strewn about like burned-out cars. Lifeless heads and stiff limbs lay abandoned on plates. The paper moon lanterns looked down upon the macabre scene with sinister smiles while folks chatted and laughed over the broken bodies. I hung my aching head and gazed down absently with weary eyes. Determined to keep my plate from looking like an autopsy table, I had kept it as clear as possible, diligently dumping all remains every time someone brought around the big plastic body. . ., um, I mean, trash bag. The only thing laying there now in a little pool of briny dill fluid was a single black bead.
Aw, great! I broke my necklace! I put a sticky hand to my chest and felt that the beads were still intact. Then it hit me. That’s not a bead. . .It’s a spherical, mindless, coal-black EYE! AHHHH!
“What’s up with your wife?”
The man who had been sitting next to me and whom I had awkwardly scrambled over in a mad dash for the bathroom was asking for an explanation for my hasty exit.
“I don’t know.” KA shrugged. “I swear, sometimes she makes no sense to me whatsoever. As she ran by, she said something about flunking her high school biology lab.”
“Must be the brännvin,” the men said in unison.
There it sat, staring me down with its spherical, mindless, coal-black eyes. Its bloody-black body armor, complete with menacing spines, made it look like some sinister medieval jousting champion. I considered carefully what I was about to do. One false move, and the repulsive creature would stick me, leaving a painful, bloody wound. My thoughts raced as I calculated the best method of attack. The creature’s many spindly, segmented legs looked like they belonged on some prehistoric insect. Brown-tinged briny liquid seeped from under its formidable armor and pooled around its gaping claws. Revolted by the creature, I was losing my nerve. I had to do this quickly, or not at all. . .Slowly, as if I feared that it would recoil from the approach of my hand, I reached for it, hesitated, and felt the sudden jab. . .
“Just pick the thing up and tear its tail off! It’s just a crawdad, for cry’n out loud!”
“Ow!” I rubbed my side in the spot where my husband, KA, had just elbowed me in the ribs.
“But they’re so. . .insect-like! They remind me of spiders. . .and I HATE spiders!”
“But you’ve eaten them before. You always said that you liked them. . .”
Yes, it’s true. I do like the taste of crawfish. The Swedes, do, too. Swedish royalty has been enjoying them since the mid-1500’s. Over the centuries, the custom of consuming these arthropods, which actually are related to spiders and other multi-legged creepy-crawlies, spread throughout the masses as a celebration of the coming of Fall.
Last Saturday night, KA and I joined the masses at a traditional Swedish crayfish party. The hosts had made sure that all the right trappings were in place. . .a big tent in the garden with huge paper lanterns in the shape of smiling full moons hanging overhead, lots of bread and cheese, plenty of brännvin (which I’m convinced actually means ‘spiced kerosene’ in Swedish) and, of course, the delicacy of honor, the bottom-feeding mud bug, as crawfish are sometimes called in the US.
Liking the taste of crawfish is one thing. Even if I can overlook their prehistoric bug-like appearance, it’s how you have to get at them that really bothers me. You basically have to rip them apart with your bare hands! I mean, what other food do civilized people eat that way? Imagine someone inviting you for dinner, handing you a whole cooked chicken--head, feet, feathers, and all, and saying, “Have at it! Bon Appetit!” It amounts to the same thing doesn’t it? Of course, all of the grocery stores sell crawfish tails in little plastic tubs, all properly peeled and deveined. Believe me, I’d opt for this sanitized version if it wouldn’t get me laughed out of the country. After all, a genuine Swedish crawfish party is not only about merriment—it’s about dismemberment.
As it is, I can’t stomach much more than removing and peeling the tail. For me, that’s the only edible part. There are a lot of people, though, who have a much broader view of what is edible—such as the guy I ended up sitting next to.
While KA was busy chatting up the woman on his left, the guy on my right was telling me all about his favorite brands of beer while he proceeded to completely dismantel a crawfish as if he were a little boy disassembling a snap-together toy. I felt a swell of nausea, just like I felt back in high school biology lab when we had to slice up the frogs in formaldehyde. Yes, this dinner was quickly turning into a dissection. And once the guy had the creature in bits and pieces, each individual one received his special attention.
“THHHLLOOOUURP!”
Oh no! He’s sucking the. . .the. . .contents out of the creature’s head! I looked away, trying to hide my disgust.
“You know how making love in a canoe is similar to American beer?” he asked between sloppy slurps.
“Yeah, I’ve heard that one. They're both fu . . .”
"Attention, everyone!" I was interrupted by a heavy-set man with a red face sitting at the other side of the long table. He had picked up his copy of the song leaflet we had all received upon arrival. Looking very much like a preacher at a tent revival meeting, he began leading us enthusiastically in a song extolling the virtues of crawfish. The song ended with everyone scooping up their brännvin glasses with sticky hands and yelling “Skål!”
“They're both damn close to water!” My table companion delivered the punch line of his joke as he slammed down his empty glass and roared with laughter. He then began scooping orangish goo, which he called 'butter', out of the now unrecognizable animal’s body cavity and licking it off his pinky finger.
I quickly poured myself another shot of brännvin, not because I liked it, but to numb my senses. Not only was this guy eating entrails, he totally fumbled the punch line of the most over-told joke in all of Sweden!
When he finally did get around to peeling the only truly edible part—the tail, he ceremoniously slit out the muddy vein with his thumbnail and dangled it in front of my nose.
“Intestine!” he announced proudly, as if presenting a newborn child he had brought straight from its mother’s womb.
YUCK! I fought to stifle a gag as the red-faced man began the umpteenth crawfish song of the evening.
By now, the carnage was almost complete. Empty, broken exoskeletons were strewn about like burned-out cars. Lifeless heads and stiff limbs lay abandoned on plates. The paper moon lanterns looked down upon the macabre scene with sinister smiles while folks chatted and laughed over the broken bodies. I hung my aching head and gazed down absently with weary eyes. Determined to keep my plate from looking like an autopsy table, I had kept it as clear as possible, diligently dumping all remains every time someone brought around the big plastic body. . ., um, I mean, trash bag. The only thing laying there now in a little pool of briny dill fluid was a single black bead.
Aw, great! I broke my necklace! I put a sticky hand to my chest and felt that the beads were still intact. Then it hit me. That’s not a bead. . .It’s a spherical, mindless, coal-black EYE! AHHHH!
“What’s up with your wife?”
The man who had been sitting next to me and whom I had awkwardly scrambled over in a mad dash for the bathroom was asking for an explanation for my hasty exit.
“I don’t know.” KA shrugged. “I swear, sometimes she makes no sense to me whatsoever. As she ran by, she said something about flunking her high school biology lab.”
“Must be the brännvin,” the men said in unison.
