different
stallâuntil 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. âNow where did that wallet get to ⦠.â 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 ( âCuts instances of travelerâs tummy in half!â exclaimed The Genteel Travelerâs 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.
âFace it: Youâll get sick in Southeast Asia. Everyone does. No big deal, just your basic cramping and diarrhea that comes from bacteria in food. Itâs all part of the experience.â She waved her hand, sending her bracelets into a clinking frenzy.
âMy guidebooks say I wonât get sick if I simply peel all fruit, make sure everything is piping hot, drink only bottled water, liberally apply antibacterial soapââ
âBut thereâs no way you can oversee every single itty-bitty
detail of your existence. For example: Who knows whether that glass youâre drinking out of was really washed between uses?â I put it down automatically. âOr if a cook with the flu sneezed all over those noodles? Or if that money there was last used by a bank teller who didnât wash his hands after taking a dump?â
I stared at her.
Oh, why couldnât she be more like Deniseâs 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, diseaseâall around me!
âUh ⦠I donât think Iâm hungry after all.â
Grandma Gerd pushed back her empty mee bowl and stood up. âThen if youâre done, letâs get going.â
âBack to the guesthouse?â I asked hopefully.
âUnless you want to hit a couple bars. The nightâs still young.â
Was she serious?
âI think Iâd rather go back to the guesthouse, if thatâs okay.â
âSuit yourself.â
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, âYouâre gonna be my right-hand woman this summer.â
I yawned. âWhat do you mean?â
âThis 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, itâs a mega-huge collage made completely of found art, materials, photos, and rubbings from Southeast Asia. Iâve got all the other countries covered. Cambodia and Laos are the only ones left.â
âWhat do you need me to do?â
âKeep your eyes peeled for found art. Think of it as a global scavenger huntâlike this.â She dropped to a squat and pulled something out of the dirtâignoring 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. âPerfect example. Circa 1930 or thereabouts. Canât you imagine it? The old days of the British Raj. The lady of the house modernizing her kampong ⦠.â She carefully placed it in her bag. âOh, and thereâs a feather.â 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
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