Food

"Don't be shy, don't walk by, once you try you can not deny, you have to buy..."

A smiling Indian man is gesturing to a row of foil squares. I can see where one piece of the foil keeps getting folded back and forth to expose the contents as its created a permanent crease.

"Spicy or mild?"

Pacem stands next to me, one hand above his eyes blocking the sun, "Spicy."

***

"Mild," Tie-dye says two years ago, almost to the day.

For a person who moves around a lot a familiar haunt is an odd place.

"Can't believe this place is so good."

***

"American,"

It might as well be my name I guess in Hong Kong.

"American, buy."

An excited man is pointing to a box of strawberries. At first I think they are some bizarre albino form but around the edges I can see the beginnings of them turning pink.

"America!"

"Uhhh..."

"...no like?"

"These...are not...they aren't ripe."

"Ripe?"

"Good."

Wrong thing to say. The man's face scrunches up and now he's shouting, "NOT GOOD? I SELL GOOD!"

Seemed like a good time to leave.

Over the next few weeks it became increasingly apparent that strawberries were in fact just the thing to be selling to your local Gweilo. All of them were the same pasty white mess. I even broke down and bought a small container to see if I was just being biased against some local variant. They were nasty. It wasn't until a few days later I caught sight of an advertisement in an ice cream shop. The banner ran from end to end of the shop stall top, featuring a bright pick background and another pair of albino strawberries.

This was ideal?

***

Yellow.

I'm sitting next to Ginger facing a nine inch pie dish that's heaped over with scrambled eggs. Both of our eyes are fixed on the dish.

My uncle smiles, "You don't see them like that in your grocery store do you?"

The three roadtrippers looked at each other somewhat nervously. Obviously there was something wrong with my uncle's chickens, but nobody wanted to really say anything.

They were probably the best scrambled eggs I have ever eaten.

***

Gummy bears, Tillamook cheese sandwich on rye, and a Kiwi Strawberry Snapple. Same lunch as the day before, and the day before. Costco bulk made high school lunches simple.

***

Something was up with the soda fountain in the Subway in the Newark Liberty International Airport. The same thing was up with the bottle I bought in the cafeteria, and the Starbursts I found on my dresser. I cracked open a Snapple and it tasted so nasty I was unable to finish it. In high school I had considered drinking one of these the day nearly the hilight of my meal.

"High Fructose Corn Syrup," he said.

"It...tastes so fake..."

I'd spent a good portion of my time in Hong Kong eagerly awaiting the day I would return to my preservatives and partially hydroginated veggitable oil, only to find out I'd been away long enough that nothing back here seemed quite right either.

***

I find it so odd that our society is slowly becoming conscious about what we eat but it doesn't seem to be that anybody has any idea of what food actually even tastes like anymore.

Busted

I've been attending to other matters but out of the corner of my eye I'm minding the table.

A blond girl with a beach bag of a purse approaches the table from the wrong angle to be coming off the table where you assemble a burger. She takes her soda from the table, then throws it in the bag, then a second. Emboldened by her success she grabs another one in each hand and begins moving them to her bag.

"What are you doing?"

The girl is cool as she keeps pocketing more sodas, "Our hotel doesn't have a soda machine, I'm stocking up. You know what I mean..."

"No, I don't."

The girl turns red and keeps taking the sodas "I'm just taking a few." She's probably taken at least 8.

"Stop."

"I'm just getting them for my team!" The girl is shouting now, "I don't know why you care!"

I stare at her for a moment. She takes one last defiant soda and stalks off in the opposite direction. Honestly if I cared about the girl I would have made her give them back, but I honestly was too pissed to care if she learned a lesson or not from all this. I have enough kids of my own that want to be taught for me to take on more that don't even want to change their ways.

Looking back on it though, I probably did that kid a disservice. Success only makes you bolder.

The next few kids try to take two sodas just to prove they can. I roll my eyes and give them a hearty "You're pathetic" look. Kids rarely respond to adult's rage, but anybody who ever survived middle school should know that people drop dead if you can combine disdain with any inner source of their guilt.

"Don't be such pigs."

One kid who already has two sodas in his hand takes them to prove he's not scared of me, but the line goes back to one a person after that.

I guess that's the latest and greatest in the American way. If you get busted, pretend you're right, and if pressed, its the messenger's fault. After all, we're all delicate and unique snowflakes right? Being wrong might hurt somebody's ego.

What I find most impressive was that these kids were also jacking what I personally thought to be some pretty nasty soda. When was the last time you saw high schoolers buy fruit seltzer?

***

Once when I was in Hong Kong I was on the subway with about 20 non-native kids from my university when in walks a little girl and her mother. The child is holding her mother's hand by the thumb. I smile and wave at her. The little girl looks at me for a long moment and then says to her mother in Cantonese, "Look mommy, there's a devil here."

Chinese body language is so subtle compared to ours, but I don't see any visible reaction from the mother. She instead walks to a hand loop and puts her arm in as she guides her daughter to a cherry red pole to hold on to so she can weather the movement of the train.

"Mommy," she continues still in Cantonese, "There are so many devils here."

There's not hatred in this little girl's voice. The sentence wouldn't have sounded a whole lot different if it had read "There are so many chairs here." She continues her ramble, but her speech is becoming progressively more complicated and I have trouble following it.

"Mommy, I have never seen so many devils together here."

I feel bad calling out a little girl, so I sit quiet and turn to smile at her.

"Devil's looking at me!"

By this time we're all looking at each other, and a few of us are chuckling nervously. We had read how in Hong Kong the language barrier meant that racial slurs had just become part of the language. If somebody started calling me names in America I might fear for my physical safety but here there was supposedly no need to fear. We had all read that this wasn't culturally meant as a serious insult, and that it carried no threat of harm, but we all felt a little awkward being cursed out and not knowing what the socially acceptable thing to do about it would be.

"Devil's are laughing!"

I remember looking around the train for any sort of social cue at all but everybody on the train, including the kids from Hong Kong University who were helping us learn our way around, were avoiding our eyes. For a brief few seconds I could hear every clatter of every wheel on the train track. The little girl turned away from us and was quiet.

I remember being very impressed that the mother seemed to share in the shame she thought her daughter should feel rather than ignoring its existence or handing it all back to her kid. What I found more bizarre was that everybody on the train seemed to share the kid's shame, like one bizarre cold shoulder of an apology. Oddly enough, the shared guilt which created this neat little line between "us" and "them" was more alienating than being called names in some sense.

Half in defiance, and half from not knowing what else to do with ourselves, being called out as "ghosts" after that became a sick little game. I would wait until somebody went on a reasonable rant calling me a ghost and a devil, and then turn and respond in my politest Cantonese, "yes."

The response was always the same. The speaker would always look away in shame, and sometimes even apologize in Cantonese a few times. Apparently most white people didn't learn to speak any Cantonese there, so they were not use to being caught. I was amazed though that none of them ever got in my face about it, they just acted embarrassed.

Where did our society lose that skill of admitting we are wrong when we are?

***

"And," the officer leans in close to Py, "Do they let you do this at home?"

Its dark outside and we're standing on a rural bystreet not too far from the university. I'm facing one cop car, and I can tell there is another behind me from my shadow. There's a third one on my left and behind the one I am facing I can see two more. Ginger, Gilby and Py aren't doing a whole ton better.

"My dad...we lit these off when I was little...I thought fireworks were a fine-able offense in this state officer...not an arrest-able one..."

The officer leans over close to Py's face and raises his flashlight, "Oh?"

"Look," I interrupt, "Officer, we're sorry and we have given you everything. Please let us go."

The officers tried hard to rattle us after that and we pretended to be appropriately terrified of jail time or not graduating or whatever they were theatening at that moment (for portions of it, I'll admit, I did not have to pretend). Then they took our fireworks and left. I remember being thunderstruck. All they wanted to see was a little fear in us, scare us into saying sorry and hopefully into not doing it again.

***

"So what happened then?" I asked.

"Not a whole lot," Magpie shrugged, "The kid who ratted got suspended for a year, the kid he ratted on just went on academic probation."

"But I though that was part of his plea...he turns in his cohort and..."

"Guess the campus hearing board didn't feel that way for very long. Ratter didn't apologize in his closing statements, CoLo did."

"And that made..."

"All the difference I guess."