The Fishers in La Paz, Bolivia

I am… well, a microphobe. Don’t care if that’s not a word; it’s true enough. When I cook eggs, I wash my hands… countless times. When I am forced kindly asked by my sweet dear Anne to buy any raw meat, I use several plastic bags to encase the already sealed package, and then I usually find some hand-sanitizer (Avery calls it “hanitizer”, and so do we); if I’m not carrying any, I will buy some just so I can use it right then and there.

Okay – you get the picture.  I like a germ-free (or at least germ-challenged) environment.

That’s why tonight was a monumental display of bravery and cultural barrier-crossing.

You see, we were invited upstairs to our dear neighbors, the Goyarebs.  They are the sweet Lebanese family that owns the building.  Their daughter, Nur, is the most willing and patient babysitter in the universe.  We love the Goyarebs.  So, when we, and two other Highlands families were invited over, we were rather eager to go, and (in Nur’s words), experience “real Arab food”.  Yum.

The company was great.  The wine and Sprite was bubbly and delicious.  I got to meet Abdo, a Lebanese Catholic priest who is here as a missionary (has the coolest hair any priest could have); amazing guy.  When we got to the table, the spread was amazing.  And most of the food was completely irresistable.  No lamb, but, well, this is Bolivia (that’s an odd comment, considering there are sheep that graze around our school; you let me at a sheep, and we’re havin’ gyros, baby!).  But, seriously.  Amazing food.

And then Basam, Nur’s dad, offers me the dish I had been strategically avoiding.  The name escapes me; the image never will.  It was the plate of flavored, um … raw beef.  The tray was pretty, in its own way.  It seemed to be saying, “I’m beef!  Grill me!”  But the Goyarebs were not hearing its cry.

I submitted to Basam’s friendly-but-persistent urging.  He scooped a small helping (is there any such thing as small in this situation?) onto my plate (I was quite aware of the exact location of the raw meat, and made sure no other food was touched).

After some hesitation, I decided that hiding it inside the hearty, delicious pita bread they had would be my best bet.  I scooped (with a utensil I’d not use the rest of the night) and…

… I really don’t know what it tasted like, because it was a very small quantity buried in a nice, thick piece of pita.  But it was raw.  And it is inside my digestive tract as I type this.  I.  Ate.  Raw.  Meat.

Deep breath.  It’s over.  And the meal was excellent.

Now, where’s the sushi?