Today, we’ll be addressing the sun-kissed ( very punny, no?) golden globe of goodness known as the orange. Actually, this post is about fruit in general, but I had to work in my daily dose of alliteration somewhere and figured I’d just get it over with, just like how I keep telling myself I’ll go to the gym in the mornings and get it over with so the guilt doesn’t latch on to my svelte legs, dragging me down during the day like a clingy ex-boy/girl friend who just won’t let go.
Onward, to fruit.
I like to eat fruit. Juicy fruit, citrus-y fruit and thirst-quenching fruit in particular. I try to consume at least one serving of fruit a day, if not more, just like Dr. Bowel ordered. In my travels, I’ve encountered the a broad spectrum of fruit purveyors, from the sweat-soaked wife-beater clad Chinese street hawker pushing a wooden handcart that wouldn’t look out of place in 16th century Hangzhou, to the sparkling waxy-clean American supermarket where pimply, underpaid high school kids in over sized aprons “mist” the produce every hour to give it an appearance of freshness. My favorites thus far (and by favorite, I mean favorite like the kitschy knit sweaters you always see kids in cheesy movies complaining about getting from grandma for Christmas, but for which I harbored a secret desire because nothing screams oh-so-soft like hand-knit yarn) have been the little mom-and-pop European markets and fruit stands.
Fruit at these establishments is lovingly laid out for your ocular pleasure. You, or I, really, can’t help but leer at the little pyramids of ruby red apples, bunches of bananas that are just yellow enough so that the bitter raw taste is gone and just the right size so you’re not overly bloated or yearning for more after consuming one stem, and of course the bushel of delicious oranges.
My first encounter with European Fruit Etiquette was in Italy. After disembarking from one of those horrendous overnight train rides where I shared a cabin with 5 other shower-averse travelers, I was aching for something thirst quenching and remotely healthy. Of course, the only thing I could think of that satisfied those two requirements was an orange. Mmm. There was no way in hell I’d fish through my unisex money receptacle for cash to buy anything in Roma Termini – that dark den of iniquity, teeming with dirty rotten scoundrels and Carbeneri, which as far as I’m concerned, are one in the same – so I decided to trudge to my hostel on foot.
Along the way, I spied the aforementioned shrine-like display of fruit. Oh, joyous day. La Virgen must have been watching over me. I lunged for an orange, and before my grimy, foreign hands reached its soft, familiar, pockmarked rind, I was blown back by a stream of invective, in Italian, of course. Shocked but not dissuaded, and convinced that the mustachioed proprietor couldn’t be talking to me, I went in again. Don Corleone be damned; nothing was going to stand between me and my pulp intake. Making a second pass at the orange yielded a very angry Italian man who seemed to have no respect for personal space, as he was literally inches from my face, yelling and wildly gesticulating as Italians are apt to do. Tangentially, I noticed that my map doohickey hasn’t displayed any Italian IP addresses. After this post, I don’t expect any. But I do love your culture, country, food, and well-dressed tasty tasty people. Anyhow, I passed on the orange and opted for a shower instead.
This incident repeated itself about three more times before I figured it out through some stealthy market reconnaissance, or as much reconnaissance a stranger in a strange land can do without looking like they’re casing a place. Apparently, in Spain, Italy and some places in France, fruit that seems to be laid out for purchase is actually not. It’s just there for you, the consumer, to look at. And if, god forbid, you’d like to buy some, you’d have to get the attention of proprietors who are on you like a vulture on roadkill as soon as you step within a 10 meter radius of their store, but are nowhere to be found when you want their help. Bottom line: only the people who “own” the fruit can lay their grubby paws on it, and that means NO SOUP, err, FRUIT FOR YOU.
I can’t wait to live with European efficiency again.
