xaara

1. Gotten involved in a bar fight in London.

It's actually surprisingly easy to get into a bar fight in London. Apparently, fighting in bars is a popular pastime. I was sort of passing by a pub and heard some interesting music, so I popped in to see who was performing, only to find myself in the middle of a dispute between a middle-aged man and another guy who was (I think), his nephew. Or maybe son-in-law. A younger guy, who had had about four shots too many and decided that he wasn't going to put up with the argument. He popped the older man on the nose (with extremely poor form) and then threw his glass, prompting another nearby drunk man to scream something unintelligible and rush after him.

It was about this time that I realized three things: I was (a) the only female non-hooker anywhere in the area, (b) the only person who was under eighteen, and (c) the person most likely to be killed, as everyone else seemed to have weapons in the form of beer bottles, canes, and beefy fists and I weighed a hundred-twenty pounds tops. So I skedaddled, and it's probably fortunate I did.

2. Received marriage proposals from Egyptian men in Cairo.

I read a book once where the father of the protagonist was offered camels by a Bedouin trader in exchange for his daughter's hand in marriage. At the time, I laughed and put the book down, because I mean, cliché much? But then it actually happened to me. At least three times. The first man at least had the decency to ask me if he could marry me; the second and third asked Dad. And I think there was a fourth and maybe a fifth--I wrote it down somewhere. Finally, it got so bad that I forced my little brother (who's taller and looks older than me) to hold hands with me when I went out in public.

3. Almost been shot in a Pizza Hut.

Nick (my little brother) and I were playing a gig with the DC Youth Orchestra in an iffy part of DC on one of the coldest days I remember having survived ever. So during break, we decided that the cold cuts they were giving us to eat just weren't doing it for us and left the venue to find a place to eat. As it turned out, the only place open was a Pizza Hut about a block away, so we shrugged on our jackets and made a run for it.

As we entered the restaurant, two people looked up: the Hispanic man at the cash register, who was reading a porn magazine, and a tubby young man at a corner table, who paused for only a second before resuming his frantic ingestion of an enormous pizza. Nick and I had five or six dollars between us, so we asked for a small pepperoni pizza.

"Medium cheese?" the cashier asked in heavily accented English.

"Small pepperoni," I said.

"Ah. Small mushroom."

"Small pepperoni," I said. "Pequeño...er...salchicha?"

He frowned at me, said, "Small pepperoni?"

I smiled in return, handed him my money, and pulled my jacket more tightly over my concert dress.

Nick and I were strangely out-of-place--he was wearing his tuxedo and I was in my black velvet--so we took the least conspicuous seat and waited for our pizza.

About five minutes later, a short, skinny, swaggering guy dressed in what looked like a series of denim pillowcases and a bulky leather jacket slammed the door open. He limped up to the counter, one hand holding his pants somewhere about a foot below his hips, the other moving violently in a series of gestures that included a liberal use of his middle finger. Okay, I thought. He's not actually paying attention to me yet, so I'm probably good for now.

The man behind the counter had risen from his seat by then and yelled something that I've never heard before in Spanish. I figured that meant it was something I wasn't supposed to know, so I tried to burrow into my seat and become invisible. After a heated exchange that escalated in volume until I couldn't actually discern words in the clamor, the man who'd entered spun around and headed for the door, grabbing Tubby by the ear on his way out. When he reached his hand forward to open the door, I had a clear view of the inside pocket of his jacket, and of the oblong shape of what looked a helluva lot like a gun. (I mean, I've lived in cities my whole life--I've seen handguns.)

So, after a while, Nick and I finally worked up the nerve to go get our pizza, and then we rushed back to the theater, not stopping to look back.

4. Become stranded on Newfoundland.

We were flying space-available (space-A) with the military, which means that the flight is free, but that we civilians are often booted in strange places. Usually, strange places are Rota Spain, the Azores, Vicenza Italy, or Dover Delaware. Well, this time it was Newfoundland. In July. Which meant that we'd packed for summer weather in Washington, D.C. and ended up freezing our butts off in sub-freezing sleet and snow somewhere that strongly resembled the middle of nowhere.

5. Nearly been killed by a runaway thoroughbred.

The horse was a huge ex-racer named Red Cake. I was a smallish twelve-year-old. I was putting him through his paces in a fenced area and had just gotten him up to a nice even canter when a rooster skidded underneath the fence, saw the horse, and made the most horrible screeching noise I've ever heard. Red Cake reared, bucked a few times, and then bolted for the far fence. I don't remember exactly what happened after that, but I think there was a lot of hanging on for dear life and a lot of thinking I'm going to die and a lot of hauling back on the reins. When it became evident that Red Cake intended to jump the fence, I yanked his reins to the right and did the nudge-kick canter signal. Fortunately, he was well enough trained to take the turn, even if he didn't hit a canter until we'd galloped several times around the corral. Still, I was alive, so I wasn't exactly complaining.

6. Shot shaving cream at the mayor of a small Italian town, thinking he was a friend of mine.

Pretty self-explanatory. It was Carnevale, my friend had gotten me with shaving cream earlier, and I was stalking a youngish guy who looked a lot like him, waiting to get my revenge. Well, it turned out the man was definitely not who I thought he was.

7. Hidden my roommate's boyfriend under my bed after curfew at camp.

Also fairly self-explanatory. Chris, the boyfriend, was illegally in our room because we were all playing cards and writing poetry together (it was a poetry seminar camp), and my roommate Sarah had put her suitcase under her bed. So he ended up under mine when the sponsor came to check on us. We held our collective breath until the sponsor left, and then Chris made a quick window-exit. Fortunately, we were on the ground floor.

8. Made ricotta cheese.

I was at a ricotta cheese festival on Mount Etna and started talking to one of the Italians who was making the wonderful cheese. He was so impressed with my Italian that he offered to let me help with the next batch, an offer I accepted because, I mean, when do you ever get to make ricotta cheese? Let me tell you, it's freakin' hard work. Basically, it involves stirring whey left over from making other cheese in a huge cast-iron cauldron over an open wood flame until it condenses into clots that you fish out with a slotted spoon and leave to cool. It's back-breaking work, and you get ash and grease all over everything, but oh it smells wonderful.

9. Been trapped in a flood of Lake Lugano in Ticino.

We were vacationing in Ticino over Winter Break, and as is the norm when my family vacations, it rained. Incessantly. For a week. By the end of the week, the rain had melted the snow from the surrounding mountains, and we had to escape the town by driving our car through four backyards.

10. Dropped a triangle during the performance of an extremely delicate piece by Ravel.

I still wince when I think about this one. I was nervous, and playing the triangle, which is the worst combination ever. My hands were sweaty, I was playing this really scary part where I had to ding the triangle oh-so-softly, and I just ended up dropping the damn thing. I practically dove after it, muffling it with both my hands and a leg, but it was too late--it screwed up the wind section and the rest of the piece was horrible. Afterward, I thought my conductor would kill me, but he turned out to be very understanding about it. At least, he didn't scream at me or anything--he just sort of smiled, raised an eyebrow, and shook his head. We ended up laughing about the whole thing later.