In Which I Eat the Bread and Hope for the Best

Not five minutes before, I had watched those grubby little hands being licked clean. And previous to that, they had wiped the dirt from the soles of small purple sandals. Now, they were reaching toward me, grasping the piece of bread I was being offered.

Her enormous dark eyes, which had dimmed with fear when she first saw me -- she'd never seen a foreigner before, her mother explained -- were friendly little gingersnaps now. I was a singer of songs, a maker of silly faces and a shameless tickler. We were pals, this 4-year-old and I. Her mother had given her piece of flat bread, and she tore off a piece for me.

And now it was waving in front of my face, held in the hand that I knew was very, very dirty.

A strident voice in my head sputtered and tut-tutted and implied that I deserved for every amoeba, parasite and germ in the world to take up residence in my intestines if I even thought about eating it. "Are you insane?" the voice screeched. "You're in rural China! You'll get sick! Just look at those hands!"

"Yes," echoed a gentler, quieter voice. "Just look at those hands, those sturdy, sweet little things with their dimples and grime, hands that rarely rest from playing." This voice, this nicer voice, reminds me that after all I can do -- after getting every shot before I came here and taking every health precaution I can when I'm by myself -- sometimes I just have to take a deep breath, eat the bread and hope for the best. This is the voice that won't let me say no to a little girl sharing her lunch.

So, I grinned and took the bread, making a great show of eating it with rapturous delight and nummy-nummy noises. I may have even patted my stomach.

Wise? Probably not. Before I came here, I vigilantly read everything the CDC has to say about food safety, and can sum it up thus: Just don't. Don't drink the water. Don't eat the street food. Don't eat the uncooked vegetables. Don't even consider anything that's been touched by ungloved hands. Don't look directly at uncooked meat. Don't talk about raw fish in anything louder than a whisper.

This is excellent advice, and I've done my best to heed it. But I'm conflicted over what I should to do when I'm out hiking with my new Chinese friends, and we've stopped for a rest, and they're passing around the cucumbers, and it's such a friendly, convivial moment. Most likely, the cucumber was rinsed in tap water, rather than soaked in iodine water in my kitchen. I should refuse. But... I can't. Reckless and foolhardy, I know.

So far, Providence has been kind and my immune system is champion of the world. This may not always be the case, but I hope the universe smiles kindly on those who try to consider the feelings of others, only occasionally practice food safety relativism and don't act like big, American jerks.

Perhaps this is why I was offered another piece of bread after the first, and then another piece after that, each accompanied by a friendly little smile.

Open wide, chew chew chew, big swallow and bigger grin. Mmmm-mmmmm, nummy nummy.


This is the girl who gave me the bread. I mean, really: those eyes? Like I could refuse.