Taking the plunge

They eat grasshoppers here.

Now, that might sound like the start of a rant into all the gross, weird things here that I don’t like, but it’s not.

They’re called chapulínes.

My host mother offered me some on my second day here, and I even though I knew they would be tasty (I mean, they’re crunchy and covered in garlic and lemon; it’s like a potato chip without the trans fat), I couldn’t bring myself to eat it. I knew it would taste good (maybe even great), but I looked at them, and they looked like grasshoppers (SHOCKER, I KNOW) and I just couldn’t do it. They had legs. I mean, legs. That could start moving again at any moment. (They could not start moving again at any moment.)

I told my host mother to put them in my food without telling me, and I would eat them.

I’m not good at taking the plunge. Well, that might be a lie. I did come here, knowing no one, on a program I found at a study abroad fair that no one at my university had ever heard of or had anything to say about. And I actually did that before, when I signed up for debate/journalism camp in Italy two summers ago.

I think I’ve digressed.

I’m not usually good at taking the plunge. Especially physical plunges, like just running into the Pacific Ocean (it’s cold!) or jumping into the pool (it might be cold!) or, apparently, eating grasshoppers (I’M SORRY, BUT THE WAY THEY LOOK IS JUST FREAKING ME OUT).

Last weekend we were at this market, and Ashley bought a bag of chapulínes for everyone to share. And I took one out of the bag and stared at it for what must’ve been a second but felt like an eternity, thinking Just fucking do it already, just fucking do it, it won't be that bad, just fucking DO IT, and then just fucking did it.

My host mom said, “Oh, you wouldn’t eat them before, and now you say you ate them at the market!”