For the first time in my life, I have unimaginable, uncontrollable gas.
Normally, I would find such a thing funny. However, somehow, my body is taking everything I eat and turning it into 100 times as much gas. I cramp up if I walk around very long, and I’ve produced precisely one Hindenburg’s worth of methane today. How on earth does something like this happen?
On an unrelated note, a guy here at The Villa bought a quarter-kilo of snails and cooked them up. Apparently you soak them in salt water, then boil them with a special mix of herbs. I called it “snail mix” for a while, but that brought to mind a really gross image of something to snack on while hiking. Anyway, Dr. Z was right: I had two, and they were totally yummy. Not rubbery at all. They’re sort of oyster-like, but flavourful and less chewy. Ldiida bizzef, as they’d say here.
It occurs to me that I never told about my experience in a Moroccan bar. So, the day after Ramadan ended, Andrew took us out to eat. We went to a place near the big parking lot near the White Souk. Warning sign #1 should have been that the place had not just tinted, but mirrored, windows.
I had asked at the orientation if there were bars in Morocco, and I was told that there were, but only bad people go to them. “Bad people?” I asked. “The kind of people that go to bars” was the reply. That raised an interesting philosophical dilemma: were they bad because they go to bars, or were they bad first and went to bars second?
The answer’s the second one. There wasn’t a guy in the entire bar that still had all of his fingers and fewer than three deep scars on his face. Imagine a bar filled with Pagans (the motorcyclists, not the hippies) that all had a really bad day and are pissed. I’ve taken to calling that bar the Capo Cafe, but no one gets that here.
Anyway, we sit down and order some food and beers, and the bouncer goes into what I think is the bathroom (it was really the basement) and hauls a guy out kicking and stuggling. He goes down again and gets a second one. Then our waiter joins in, and they haul out a total of six guys, fighting, kicking, and struggling. I don’t know wha they did to get thrown out, but they were hammered. One guy kicks over a table and breaks some glasses on his way out. The six of them, outside, decide to fight the bouncer and waiter, and they six of them get their asses handed to them right there in the car park.
So yeah, stay out of Moroccan bars. Although, I will say: it was the second best pizza I’ve had in my entire life. Reminded me of Petie’s.