Reason I love to travel #5

Travel has taught me that some blessings are extremely well disguised, especially in Guatemala.

Tempering any expectations of a smooth trip from the highlands to the islands, before departure we watched a mechanic crawl under our bus with a hammer and some duct tape. So, Cathy and I bought some "emergency" beer for the road.

Not an hour into the journey, when the engine caught on fire and the bus filled with noxious fumes, we were already glad we had. Waiting in the rain for the rescue bus was easier to bear with beer, if only because it made the locals laugh. With us or at us, we didn't care.

Later than sooner, the promised bus arrived, and we were finally back on the serpentine trail to Guatemala City. The next hour of the trip was remarkably hassle-free.

Then, traffic stopped dead. The sun went down, the driver turned off the bus, and we waited in the dark. Passengers began sharing food with hungry strangers, and I rationed my water. A few people gathered round to watch Cathy and me play Crazy Eights by the light of my head lamp; that's how bored they were.

We had no idea why we were stuck there, but we knew we'd missed our connection. We'd have to spend the night in the frighteningly dangerous and mostly filthy capital, if we ever got there. There was no remaining "emergency" beer, not even a working toilet. Our positive attitudes were positively tried.

Eventually, the driver announced the nature of the traffic jam. A mudslide had buried a major section of the road ahead and we were caught on this side of it. When we finally started moving again, on a single lane cleared by bulldozers, I saw the blessing in being off schedule:

Trapped on this side or that side of a mudslide, is a helluva lot better than trapped under one.

French-Canadian food: Ass ham

True, living in Quebec can be challenging for non-Francophones in terms of finding jobs and apartments, reading contracts, applying for grants, conducting business, dating, ordering food, and dealing with any public service over the phone, but for the hardy few who manage to overcome those minor inconveniences, there are occasional and wondrous rewards, like poutine.

This weekend, at a Normandin diner somewhere between Quebec City and Montreal, I discovered that the "poulet club sandwich" is an entirely different order than the "poulet sandwich club" and, therefore, my dissatisfaction was entirely the fault of my indisputable ignorance. I cut my losses and choked it down. You just can't argue with the facts.

My friends were smart to have kept it simple, each ordering the "gourmet" hamburger platter – a dish we've learned by rote. Simply scrape the coleslaw from the patty, add some ketchup, and it's nearly like the ones back home. Pay a little extra for cheese curds and gravy on your fries.

While none of us got exactly what we'd wanted, compensation for our troubles came with the bill at the end of the meal. Printed on them was a more accurate description of its quality. A "hamburger platter" to us, is an "assiette hamburger" to those at Normandin, or, in short: Ass ham gourmet.

Pee: The curse in the cure

As it turns out, my grade school bullies were right. I do eat worms and drink pee.

It's fair to suggest their twisted little minds planted the idea in my head. As a squeamish child, I'd never have come up with that on my own – not unless one of those stones they threw knocked me in the worms-and-pee section of my brain. It's possible.

To my credit, the acts didn't manifest quite as my bullies imagined. The worm was Mexican and travelled via souvenir mezcal to a Friday night in Montreal. The bottle housed only one worm, so, to my horror my friend Cathy sliced through its middle and offered me first choice of ends – a version of Heads-or-Tails impossible to win.

"Aaaaaaarghaaawwwaaawwwaaaaarrrrrrrgh!" I retched with the wrinkled grub in my mouth.

Though equal in size to two aspirin, it hadn't occurred to me not to grind its tiny leathery, jelly-filled body into a putrid alcoholic pulp before swallowing – not until I did just that. I feared I'd see that worm again.

It's a matter of perspective whether that's the most disgusting thing I've ever had in my mouth. I'd argue the virus (which has still has control of my sinuses) tops the list, but you might suggest pee as a fairly strong contender.

As I've explained to many a revolted family member and friend, I didn't actually drink pee – not intentionally – though a few drops inevitably escaped down my throat when I swallowed as reflex. It was the more palpable alternative to vomiting. The only way to avoid swallowing a little pee would be to not gargle it at all, which is what most have suggested.

Come to think of it, only two people have ever suggested otherwise, and neither was my friend. Still, they seemed to have my best interests in mind. Suffering the onset of strep throat while travelling solo through rural El Salvador, I was ill and desperate enough to try nearly anything – even pee.

"Do YOU gargle YOUR pee?" I croaked at my hostel-mate, an Austrian kiteboarder, from the nest I'd made in my hammock with all the blankets I could find. Over tea and sniffles, he'd spoken of pee's healing properties and I was positively scandalized.

"It really works," he answered, looking anywhere but back at me.

"Ewwwwwwwww!" I taunted. "You're a pee drinker!"

"It really works," he said again.

"Well, I could never do it," I announced, not realizing "never" would only last until the next morning, when I was sufficiently desperate.

I was still miserable in my hammock when a young Korean couple arrived later that night and, hearing me complain of an ever-worsening sore throat, suggested their grandparents' cure-all: gargling pee. No way, I thought and headed to bed, only to wake up, swallow some razor blades and think, Maybe way. Beside my bed was a plastic cup.

If I was going to do it, I intended to do it right, so I'd never have to do it again. The pee, as it was explained to me, should be the first of the day, so the vitamins and minerals it contains are as concentrated as possible. Knowing this, I procrastinated in bed for a long, long time that morning. When I could hold it no more, my decision was made: I would pee in the cup and think about it.

Battling three decades of cultural conditioning, social convention and a general aversion to pee in my mouth, I managed to rationalize the remedy, and cleared my head enough to bring the glass to my lips. Pretend it's tea, I told myself. It won't be so bad. But it was.

It was so bad, in fact, that sipping pee and vomiting in the sink seemed to happen in the very same moment. I don't think I expected it to be quite so hot, and it tasted nothing like tea at all. There was no turning back, though; I'd already crossed a line and there was plenty more pee for another try. And another. And another, until I finally managed to gargle.

"This better be worth it," I said to the new pee-mouth me in the mirror. I reloaded my toothbrush with minty-fresh paste a few times while I brushed and brushed and brushed and brushed, and pondered having lost my pee-ginity. Back in my hammock, I fell asleep to my newest mantra: "I am so hardcore."

Hours later, my throat was better. All better. "Shhhhhhhit!" I yelled, suddenly aware of the curse in the cure. Now the keeper of a terrible secret, with every instance of a sore throat, I'd forever be forced to consciously choose to suffer, or to gargle pee. The line of separation between the options is arguably blurry.

While I don't regret my decision to buck convention concerning pee remedies (and join the ranks of Madonna, Gandhi and British actress, Sarah Miles), at the end of the day, there's one convention I'd have been better of to heed. You know the saying: "What happens in *holiday destination* stays in *holiday destination*"? No longer are my grade school bullies teasing me about eating worms and drinking pee, but the torch is carried by my family and friends and others I've made the mistake of telling, which, as of now, is everyone.

Thankfully, half of you won't believe me.

Reason I love to travel #4

I've learned that a smile can get me out of all sorts of trouble – particularly when it comes to dealing with the (presumably) self-appointed, easily excitable, bullet proof-vested Nicaraguan beach patrol and its collective libido.

Short skirts, on the other hand, only get me into trouble.

Fewer things to kill me

If you believe everything my mother tells you, then you'll know she has no moral issue with endangering your life for the sake of 10 minutes of pleasure, or however long it takes to eat her spaghetti.

At the family table, it was everyone for their respective self. We didn't say grace, but my mother occasionally kicked off mealtime by announcing the possibility of death, advised us to be vigilant and, smiling, encouraged us to dig in and enjoy.

According to my mother, the bay leaf – a spice known for its distinctive fragrance and flavour – is both essential to any good spaghetti sauce and entirely capable of slicing your intestines with its razor sharp edges and causing internal bleeding.

Pigging out on Mom's meat sauce, I surmised as a child, could result in anything from indigestion to dying quietly in your sleep. This I believed, among other questionable, unquestioned quasi-truths:

Jesus is a white guy. Raw hot dogs will give me worms. Uncle So-and-So isn't gay. My face could get stuck like this. Bay leaves can kill me. Me, and everyone I love.

Having survived my childhood, I thought it best to avoid cooking with bay leaves altogether when I moved out on my own. I just couldn't bear the thought of my mother receiving news that, despite all her warnings, I'd gone and accidentally offed myself in that particularly unsavoury way. Not until I cooked with someone unaware of the risks of this common albeit deadly ingredient was I forced to, for the first time, express these thoughts out loud.

"Let's leave out the bay leaf," I suggested, explaining the risks.

"Who told you THAT?" my co-chef asked, scrunching up his face.

"My mother," I declared, considering her the authority on all things culinary.

"Doesn't she also think her house is haunted?"

"Well, yeah," I said, "but so do I."

He just looked at me. "Bay leaves can't kill you."

"Yes, they can," I said, steadfast.

Leaves in hand, locking his eyes with mine, he motioned toward his mouth.

"Don't do it!" I yelled, and tried to grab them away. The last thing I need is an accidental suicide in my house, I thought. "No!" I screamed when he shoved them into his mouth and began to chew.

"Why would your mother put something in your food she thought might kill you?" he asked. He was talking with his mouth full.

Because my mother takes cooking very seriously.

"If I die, you win," he taunted and swallowed.

Later on, when he didn't die, he didn't shut up about it for long enough that I kind of maybe sort of wished he had. Just a little bit.

Still, through the fog of my annoyance, I managed to glean that sometimes being wrong is best for everyone.

Photo: Mom and me on an evening walk, after another perilous meal.