Being Smacked in the Face with Reality, Molly

In the past twenty-four hours I've realized two things

1) There is a meal of champions that can be eaten any time of the day.
2) I am in Mongolia.

Now, to explain.

1) Mongolia is a haven for people with particular unique dietary tastes. It's a positive paradise for fans of novelty food, flavored drinks, ice cream, meat, and bread. I only have interest in the first three (as you can probably tell.)

Okay, I also like bread.

So, in short, I like the food here, except for the meat--I'm working on eating it. In order to ensure I wouldn't keel over and die the first time I ate meat to be polite (having beena vegatarian since 4th grade--I just finished 16th, you do the math), my darling Soviet friends put me on a training regime of dead-animal-products.

But that's neither here nor there.

During today's lunch break I played the fool at a meeting with one of the most amazing women I've met in Mongolia (Hongorzul), the head of the psychology department (I think), and two psychology doctoral candidates who will be advising my project. This was all mediated by Allison. My presence mostly consisted of me being quiet, occasionally doing or saying something, and then everyone else giggling at me. Affectionately, I tell myself. Afterwards, without enough time for a real meal, I debated food and then came upon the Meal of Champions: Goe (there's an umlaut over the 'e' and it rhymes with 'boy') and supercontik.

Goe (imagine the umlaut for me) is one of the many "fruit drinks" available in Mongolia. These drinks are positively amazing. 'Goe' is one of the multipurpose Mongolian words that functions quite like "bella" does in Italian, if you happen to know the language. Goe can mean beautiful, great, wonderful, pretty, and just about any other positive word you can think of.

Supercontik is one of the novelty foods Allison was smart enough to introduce us to. Now, may I digress--if this whole thing isn't me digressing--for a moment and explain novelty foods here.

When I said Mongolia is a haven for novelty food enthusiasts, I wasn't joking. They get junk from China, Europe, Japan, Korea, and Russia. I'm sure other places as well, but I don't care about them right now. Most delicious things somehow combine pastry, chocolate, and occasionally "fruit flavored substance." There are wafers. There are varieties of thin, unsweetend crackers that are lightly complimented with equally thin layers or coatings of chocolate. There are lighty, puffy pastries filled with cream. Earlier, we had a trip to Naran Tuul and found these eclaires, fifty cents and big enough to constitute a meal.

Junk food here rocks.

My absolute favorite thing so far has been supercontiks. Imagine a droxie--that's a bootleg oreo for the uninitiated--but make it a size that fits comfortably in your palm (unless you have very small hands, then it's bigger than your palm.) Now, you can get these filled with chocolate, hazelnut, or vanilla. Then take the whole thing and dip it in dark chocolate, package it with between one and three more just like it, and writer 'Supercontik' on it in large, friendly letters.

Allison made a reasonable point when introducing these to us: They're not really that good. They -sound- good, but they're of a mediocre quality, all in all. However, they're everywhere. Little old women sell them on street corners. When you're hungry and have between 200 and 400 tugrok to blow on food, they're prefect because they're right there. After a while you get used to them and begin to love them. They become a comfort food just like kraft mac-n-cheese or ramen.

This is an amazing combination. It has enough sugar to keep you going untill you crash in a useless heap after spending close to an hour deep frying potatoes and garlic over an electric stove.

2) I'm in Mongolia.

This seems like a fairly obvious, and fairly stupid, thing to say. If you, dear reader, do not happen to know me as intimately as some of our other dear readers do (so if, for example, you're Michael's mom as opposed to my mom--I think only our moms read this), then here's a useful fact: I am a total flake.

Seriously! I am a huge, huge flake. Once I twisted my ankle and the general response to it was "Were you looking in the sky and daydreaming or at your feet and daydreaming?" (That time was thwe sky, which is why I twisted my ankle and fell rather than ran into something painful.) I don't notice much in the world around me and fail to feel the import of situations.

I've never been particularly profoundly affected by travel. I enjoy traveling, I like how it feels, but I've never really had the sensation of being some new and amazing. Sure, I like architecture and doing cool stuff, and occasionally I recognize that I'm not where I've grown up, but the feeling fades quickely. I recently had one of those "Wow, I'm so not anywhere I know."

I needed to get some passport photos taken. I found a place, walked in, stood in line, stood in line, and stood in line. Eventually, after having far too many people show up, say five words to the guy behind the counter, and move in front of everyone else, much to the chagrin and annoyance of other people in line, it was my turn. Then someone showed up.

Oh no, I was raised in Philadelphia! I can be just as obnoxious as anyone else. I said in my best Mongolian "Uchlare," which means "excuse me" or "I'm sorry," not sure which. The guy, who looked something like the star from an 80's cop drama in a track suit, turned to me, smiled, and said something I didn't understand in Mongolian. In response to my blank, deer-in-the-headlight's expression he pointed to himself and held up one finger then me and held up two. I shook my head, pointed to him, held up two fingers, and then myself with one. He smiled and nodded.

I like to pretend I won here, but am now expecting an admonishing text-message from Allison. (P.S. My phone number here is in my facebook profile. Skype-call me!)

The man behind the counter said something in Mongolian and my American tourist expression returned. He pointed to his digital camera card reader and then the picture options. I didn't see what I wanted so I mumbled something that I hope was "passport photo, please" in Mongolian. Something worked because I got four of them.

The 80's-Cop made small talk with me, as did the rest of the crowd there, commented on my picture, complemented me on my moonlight-tan skin, and giggled whenever I tried to say something about myself in broken Mongolian. (These expressions were limited to "I am a student at the National University" and "I'm an American" and "My mother is forty-two," mostly because I don't remember how old she is right now and we said she was forty-two for more than a year.)

I left, successful, clutching my pictures. I was proud enough of my accomplishment that it probably was sinful in some religion. I decided I would reward myself with a supercontik. Then I realized that in this situation normally I would call Josh, one of the three people I call "best friend in the world." I also call him "Short-pants." Feel free to laugh if you ever meet him. However, because I am in Mongolia and it is super-long distance I could not call Josh. Defeated at this, my pride dissapeared and I, once again, realized that I am in Mongolia, not "Pittsburgh without rain."