So if you don’t know by now, Sam my husband, is the expert on India. He speaks Hindi and he can even write in Devanagari script. Below are some examples.

I try to always keep an open mind. The only exceptions I can think of are when I am deathly ill or my gut feeling is setting off fireworks. Other than that I can handle crazy situations.

Sam was teaching workshops in India on an acting technique specific to Italian culture, called commedia dell’arte. After surviving one round of my traveler’s sickness, I was well enough to go explore the more modern part of Kolkata. We went out with some of the actors from the workshop and asked them to take us to one of their local restaurants. We arrived at the restaurant, a special ‘fish’ restaurant. My stomach immediately dropped, remembering the Ganges River and its condition. We all sat around a table, an Indian couple, myself, Sam, and another Italian man named Michele. Sam and Michele were discussing that they wanted ‘local fish’, I kept wracking my brain like ‘GUYS did you NOT see the river last night?!’. But I politely sat there quietly and let the locals order for us, but Sam and Michele kept insisting on eating local fish. I remember thinking that I did not want this to be my final meal knowing damn well that my immune system was already shot. The Indian woman and I decided to split a fish. Everyone placed their orders and I was annoyed that there was no beer available to choke down this fish, I was also praying to my god that the fish would be fried straight from the depths of hell so that I wouldn’t consume toxic waste that would ultimately end my life.

In America or in Italy, when you decide to split a dish with someone, it means exactly that. You get a plate, the person sharing your singular ordered item gets a dish and you divide that dish down the middle, each receiving equal portions. The Indian woman kept warning me that the fish we ordered would have a lot of bones and splinters. I assured her that I had experience with aquatic life from the Pacific Ocean, and I was a seasoned pescatarian, that I would be okay with a little Bengali fish.

The food arrives. The Italians always make a remarkable expression of gratitude towards any food at a table, Sam and Michele on cue did exactly that. I had a clean plate in front of me and if I recall I picked up my knife with the intention of cutting off a part of the fish to place on my empty plate. The Indian woman says “No I insist let me help you, this is a very tricky fish”. She slides the fish over in front of her and she starts ripping the fish with her hands, putting a big piece in her mouth and with her fingers pulling out several tiny fish bones and placing them on her plate. Then with her tongue she moved the fish meat around in her mouth, chewed it, spat the fish into her hands then reached across the table and plopped it on to MY plate.

She BABYBIRD fed me fish!!!! She did this to the entire portion of my fish while licking the palm of her hand and sucking her fingers.

Sam and Michele’s eyes darted over to me with panic. I made eye contact with them and my eyes just widened, as if to confirm to them if they had just seen what the fuck was going on! I knew deep down in my whole being that if I did not eat the fish she just spit-up on my plate for me, that it would be the ultimate form of disrespect. Sam and Michele froze and were holding their breaths waiting for my reaction, because thus far I was having a very hard time on the trip.

YOU GUYS!!!!!!!!!!! I ATE THE FISH!!! Every last bite. Through a green face and trying to visualize my happy place. I didn’t want to make the woman feel uncomfortable, plus I was already the only asshole using utensils at the table. After the meal I felt as if I finished a marathon, later it felt as if my asshole was dragged through the entire distance of one. I was very sick after that day, but I feel as if I received a culture trophy, another notch in my experience belt.