Read Online Carpe Diem by Autumn Cornwell - Free Book Online Page B

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stall—until I saw the man chop up the entire bird, bones and all, and dump it on a plate.
    She dug around in her oversize bag. “Now where did that wallet get to … .” Eventually, she managed to scrounge enough Malaysian ringgit to pay the man. Then she led me over to a plastic table with two chairs, a container of hot sauces and chilies, and a mangy dog sprawled underneath.
    I fanned my face with my big white hat. My hair was completely soaked. As were my linen blouse and slacks. And we were eating steaming noodles.
    Grandma Gerd dug into her bowl with zest.
    But I first chewed a Pepto-Bismol tablet to coat my stomach ( “Cuts instances of traveler’s tummy in half!” exclaimed The Genteel Traveler’s Guide to Malaysia ), then thoroughly rubbed the metal spoon with antibacterial soap. Only then did I cautiously sample a spoonful of the curry broth: surprisingly tasty, though a touch on the spicy side. I looked up to see Grandma Gerd gazing at me incredulously.
    â€œFace it: You’ll get sick in Southeast Asia. Everyone does. No big deal, just your basic cramping and diarrhea that comes from bacteria in food. It’s all part of the experience.” She waved her hand, sending her bracelets into a clinking frenzy.
    â€œMy guidebooks say I won’t get sick if I simply peel all fruit, make sure everything is piping hot, drink only bottled water, liberally apply antibacterial soap—”
    â€œBut there’s no way you can oversee every single itty-bitty
detail of your existence. For example: Who knows whether that glass you’re drinking out of was really washed between uses?” I put it down automatically. “Or if a cook with the flu sneezed all over those noodles? Or if that money there was last used by a bank teller who didn’t wash his hands after taking a dump?”
    I stared at her.
    Oh, why couldn’t she be more like Denise’s grandma, who wore floral housedresses, did thousand-piece puzzles, and gave us Circus Peanuts. And who spoke in well-modulated quiet tones.
    I looked down at my noodles. Germs, bacteria, disease—all around me!
    â€œUh … I don’t think I’m hungry after all.”
    Grandma Gerd pushed back her empty mee bowl and stood up. “Then if you’re done, let’s get going.”
    â€œBack to the guesthouse?” I asked hopefully.
    â€œUnless you want to hit a couple bars. The night’s still young.”
    Was she serious?
    â€œI think I’d rather go back to the guesthouse, if that’s okay.”
    â€œSuit yourself.”
    Â 
    On the way, she stopped to buy something brown, oblong, and prickly at a fruit stall. As she swung the plastic bag she said, “You’re gonna be my right-hand woman this summer.”
    I yawned. “What do you mean?”

    â€œThis summer just so happens to be one of the biggies for me: an art commission. A big art commission. Meaning I can live off it for three years. Beats ESL. I hate teaching ESL. Anyway, it’s a mega-huge collage made completely of found art, materials, photos, and rubbings from Southeast Asia. I’ve got all the other countries covered. Cambodia and Laos are the only ones left.”
    â€œWhat do you need me to do?”
    â€œKeep your eyes peeled for found art. Think of it as a global scavenger hunt—like this.” She dropped to a squat and pulled something out of the dirt—ignoring the stares of the passersby. She held up her find triumphantly: a strip of yellowed linoleum. She wiped it off with an old rag from her pocket. “Perfect example. Circa 1930 or thereabouts. Can’t you imagine it? The old days of the British Raj. The lady of the house modernizing her kampong … .” She carefully placed it in her bag. “Oh, and there’s a feather.” She pointed at something white at my feet. I handed it to her.
    Why not just dump every bit of trash in the city into her