Orange Meat

It was my freshman year of high school and our music program was taking us to France! This was going to be my first European experience and I was absolutely ecstatic, but my “perfect vacation” was far from expectation. Our plane was two hours late and I was absolutely starving. We didn’t even have time to stop at a terminal café to grab a bagel since our connecting flight from Iceland was about to take off. Our chaperone assured us that it would be alright since our flight would now include dinner. “Yeah, well it better.” I thought dryly. Our group of 50 young musicians paraded onto the runway with our carry-ons and hopped on the plane, taking our seats as quickly as possible. Thank God they waited for us! What a nice bunch of people, those Icelanders!

After what felt like forever, our captain announced that we “would be to move about the cabin” in what sounded like some type of hybrid French-German-Icelandic accent. Then he proceeded to translate the same thing into what definitely sounded like French, but was really Icelandic. The fatigue and starvation was definitely getting to my head. I could hear the cart of food rattle down the aisle as the awkward scent of airplane food filled the all too cramped cabin. I listened to the person in front of me order their meal. It sounded more like “shmla smahzie sandwich la pew meatball.” I had no idea what she was saying but I could pick up two words. It made enough sense, right?

When it was my turn, I simply told the flight attendant to get me what the guy in front of me got. I could go for a meatball sandwich. When she pulled out the little box, a strange smell filled my compacted two-foot space. I opened the top to see three bright orange, and I mean highlighter-neon-orange chunks of what looked to be meat on an off-colored bread bun. Ignoring my instincts, I held the sandwich up my mouth and took a bite. I was starving and I figured the orange was due to the poor airplane lighting. And since when was airplane food expected to be the right color anyway? The sandwich tasted nothing like I had expected it to. It was weird, even for airplane food. I turned to my chaperone a who was siting a few seats across from me. “What is this?” I whispered, taking a swig of my apple juice. At least that tasted normal. “Caribou meatballs.” She said back. I almost gagged. “Cari-WHAT?” I coughed.

Needless to say, I spent the rest of the plane ride with a full plate of food in front of me and an empty cup of apple juice. I listened the flight attendant as she made small talk with my chaperone, discussing the history of our American Music Abroad program. Though the food she gave us was odd, she was still a very nice lady. When we got off the plane, she thanked us all for flying with her and wished us luck on our tour. After all, it wasn’t her fault I didn’t like the food. I asked for it and she gave it to me. She was doing her job. I gave her a wave and was ready to start my European adventure.

For a while, I avoided all orange tinted meats; barbeque pork, salmon, etc. It all made my stomach churn. I still can’t eat orange chicken, the resemblance is just too close. The experience itself was comical to say the least, and left me with mixed feelings about Iceland; not to mention it makes for a great story. But of course, you can’t judge a country just on its food. Otherwise people would stereotype Americans as the “Supersize me” country. The Icelandics are hospitable people; they just have “interesting” meatballs. In the future, I will probably be more cautious when trying new foods. And I will definitely by fully awake the next time I order a meal in a foreign place, let alone while thirty thousand feet in the air, above international waters. Sure, I’ll eat white meat, and red meat, but when it comes to orange meat, I will definitely have to pass.

#travel #food #humor