Death by empanada

$1.50 for a fried banana with cheese and a massive empanada? You can't say no to that. Or at least Josephine and I couldn't, when two women lit up a deep fryer at the beach yesterday afternoon.

The empanada, soaked well in grease, revealed its meaty innards when we were halfway in. I knew it wasn't chicken, but I pressed on, fool that I am. After wiping our oily fingers with our towels, my new Swedish friend and I hiked to the lookout in time to watch the sun set in a pile of clouds. I felt OK. I felt less OK at 3AM this morning when I rolled over and thought to myself, "You deserve this."

The last time I tried to digest ground beef was in Ankara, where my three Turkish hosts produced a very special dish from their hometown Antakya: a meatloaf the size of a poker table. The boys slept soundly that night as I learned how to throw up into a squatter toilet.

Four-legged animals have been off the menu for, oh, eleven years now, so maybe the enzymes for dissolving their special flesh have washed out of my system; I don't know. All I know is that from now on, quadrupeds can stay on that side of my line in the sand.

In Turkey, I might note, I knew what was coming to me. I asked the boys what they were cooking, and they said et (meat). Here, I know the word carne, but I'm still shy asking questions. In conclusion: less meat, more Spanish.