Tummy Travel

A lovely ex of mine said the following of her trip to Peru:

"My constitution is no match for developing countries."

She got the unsolicited 10-pound slimdown, courtesy of staying in the rainforest. Alas, she also got to see Machu Picchu. It could be argued that's a fair tradeoff, but at the risk of getting kicked in the nuts, I'll refrain from making the argument.

Can you tell I really want to see Machu Picchu?

Anyway.

I haven't anywhere near that level of gastronomical (or gastrointestinal) anecdotes to relate about my own trip Down South. But I did feel sick to my stomach two times.

The first was at the shooting range.

Before you get all defensive and accuse me of being a peace-loving communist with barely one nut in that sack I was protecting from ex-wreckage earlier, recognize I have a healthy relationship with my lizard brain and find suitable outlets for releasing the aggression that is my birthright as a human animal.

Said outlets don't include the shooting range, but I'm sure it works for many on this planet. I say that because after my initial nausea, it worked for me too.

I was massively pumped for this event, since I've never shot worse than an airgun, or, more frequently, an atomic laser pistol. I was all ready to walk in with my fake handlebar moustache, impromptu redneck garb, and an unreasonably wide-legged gait.

Perish the thought of levity in these environs, though, because "gun people" take it very seriously. I was afraid to even crack a smile during the NRA video Mike and I had to watch while completing our written firearm safety tests. I actually felt like the two of us were back in high school trying to stifle chortles at insipid, dated sex education films.

At any rate, we passed and proceeded to spend $60 USD (this is an expensive form of stress release) and churn out quite a few spent bullets on paper targets both disturbing (Mike's, of two theoretical assailants) and neutral (mine, a simple bullseye), at distances of up to thirty feet, and calibers of up to .45.

Good Lord.

The feeling I had when firing a real gun took all the fun out of every cops and robbers game I played as a kid. You pull the trigger, with some effort, and when you manage to get that hammer to hit the cap that ignites and forces the bullet down the chamber and out the muzzle toward whatever the hell it is you want to put a hole in, you get this WOOF of air against your nose and forehead that feels like a child slapping you in the face - along with the WHIFF of a smell I don't think I'll find replicated anywhere else. It's warm and it's cold all at once. It burns and it stinks.

It took me about 20 rounds with the .38 before I could stop shaking and handle the killing tool without fear of dropping it, pointing it in the wrong direction for even a second, loading (or unloading) it improperly...even handing it to my friend, I held it like a piece of radioactive sludge and really wished he had gloves.

Now.

The second gun we shot has a loading mechanism called a slide, and if you "have a pair" (I refer you to the single-nut-in-sack description above, which thankfully isn't my situation), you will LOVE pulling that thing back. At least, I did. I liked it more than anything else I encountered in the building. I pulled that slide, and I pulled that slide, and I pulled it, that slide, dammit--

Boy did I feel like a man.

And for a few precious, unforgettable moments, I let loose with a tight series of rather accurate shots in close succession that did the job for me of making all the noise I wanted to make with my own lungs and vocal chords while picturing certain objects of disenchantment begging for a judicious bullet-riddling treatment.

Yes, readers, I wanted to bellow. Yes, I felt my temperature rising. That lizard brain kicked in. Bloodlust raged through my puny arms and quaking legs as they worked to keep me perfectly still and ensure the accurate dealing of imaginary death.

It was after that I knew it was time to leave.

Also, the three other groups of casual shooters who'd arrived and were blowing the crap outta their paper targets to either side with increasingly louder sidearms were really getting to me. I'd rather jump every second while watching a horror movie, thanks, instead of getting whiplash trying to figure out which direction the potentially life-ending threat is coming from.

In short: guns are serious business.

And they're no business of mine.

On a slightly lighter note, Nausea Number Two:



Mike and Carolyn made the mistake of taking me to Golden Trough for lunch one afternoon, because a tourist really should have "the experience". Truth be told, at least one of the locals in our party had never eaten there before either, and regretted it just as much as I did by the time our repulsive repast had come to an end.

I thought I'd be in the clear, choosing only gentle options such as (supposedly) fresh vegetables and fruit, a little cottage cheese there, some macaroni here. I avoided the stuff that looked truly toxic and helped myself to only two plates at this ludicrous buffet destination where you can eat as much as you can fit, buster, at $6 a pop. I even skipped dessert.

No matter.

My guts were in revolt for no less than two days following, everywhere from intake channel to bilgepipe. Our other Golden Corral virgin suffered similarly. Only dear Mike made it out unscathed, clearly possessing a digestive system of iron.

I leave you with some tasty pic(k)s from this distinguished eatery.


Your appetizer.





The main course.





Destination: diabetes.





A light treat.





What appears to be cookie pizza.
NOTE: in the foreground, that is NOT honey.





I was taught to clean my plate.
Here, I really shouldn't have.




A battleground cleared.
The meal vanquished.
Our appetites conquered.
Perhaps forever.