One time when I was in Pamplona for the running of the bulls, I really had to pee. There was an incredibly long line to the port-o-potties and I was doubtful that my soda-filled bladder could wait 15 minutes. It was then that I noticed a special, wheelchair-accessible port-o-potty that was lineless. I proceeded to the potty threshold, gleaming with excitement at the thought of releasing my extra liquids. There was a boy guarding the door, and I when I told him it was necessary that I used the bathroom post haste, he told me that I didn’t appear disabled and was thus not allowed to use this particular baño. This little Spaniard, who was about 9 years old, was guarding the post for his mother, who was the designated attendant of this restroom. Given that I was about to burst, I pushed the kid out of the way and dashed in the stall. The door didn’t lock, but it closed so that it looked locked. Well, you know that little voice inside your head that just knows what’s going to happen? I don’t know if I didn’t believe it or if I didn’t care, and I could hear it saying, pee like the wind, girl! Just as I pulled my pants and took position over the foul toilet, the door flung open with an enraged Spanish woman screaming at me in Basque-Spanish. She refused to shut the door, and held it open as a crowd of fiesta-goers stared at my exposed American flesh.
Another time my sister Jessica and I were browsing the buy one get one half off sale at Payless Shoes in El Cerrito. I was wearing a new pair of rather tight jeans that day, and as I bent over to slip my right foot in a leather sandal, the seam of my pants ripped straight down the center. If I stood still with my legs together you almost couldn’t tell that the pants were ripped, but the problem was that I had to actually walk to get anywhere. I tied a shirt around my waste and tip toed two blocks to Longs Drugs where I purchased a pair of sweat pants, which I put over my pants for the train ride home.
One time in Spain I asked for a penis sandwich, by accident, having feministically said polla instead of pollo.
One time in Brazil I was on a hike with a friend in the interior of Bahia. We were passing through a field of manioc. My friend told me that locals believed that if you ate this manioc and then had sex, that you would die. I was distracted by the scenery and accidently said that I wanted to try it with him, not having heard the part about the sex and death.
The first time I went to Bahia, I was studying Portuguese at the Brazilian-American Association. I had a young male professor, who was invited to join our class at a fancy restaurant. My professor didn’t want to join us and when I attempted to jokingly say that he was cheap, I accidently said that he had a hard penis. Because the expression for cheap is literally “hard bread” and if you don’t nasalize the word for bread, it is penis.
For the first three months that I was in Brazil I had been telling my male and female friends that I wanted to hang out with them. Well, that was what I thought I was saying. What I was actually saying was that I wanted to make-out with them. I learned this the hard/fun way.
A Couple of weeks ago I was on a date with a guy at a Thai restaurant in Westwood. Afterwards we were walking around the neighborhood and I said, “thanks for turning me on.” Without knowing it, I stopped the sentence and got distracted by something that had happened in the street, and about a minute later, I realized what I had said. What I meant to say was “thanks for turning me on to that Thai restaurant.” Freudian slip?
A couple of weeks ago I was in the laundry room and there was this new guy in there who struck up a conversation with me. We were about to exchange numbers when I bent over facing him to put my laundry in the basket and my shirt was so loose that it fell over and exposed my entire frontal self.
My first time in Bahia I was on the beach with a friend and we were talking about all of the various vendors on the beach. I told him that it was difficult for me to say no to people who ask me for things, that I like to give things to people. He began to laugh but refused to tell me what was funny. The next day I asked my professor what it means to give something to someone, and based on the way I had said it, I implied that I liked to have sex with everyone. (Falei: Gosto de dar para as pessoas).
In Mexico I ate a sweet bread called Concha. While in Argentina, I said that I like to eat Concha, although this word, in South America, means cunt.
The second time I went to Bahia, I was with some of the UCLA students from the summer study program at a bar in Pelourinho, some of these UCLA students had been my actual students, while others were those I had come to know since they were volunteering for a project I was doing. I had had one too many caiprinhas and I was pretending not be drunk, telling myself, "Self, don't look drunk in front of your students!" One of my classmates was also there, and I pretended like I was having a meeting with someone, when I was in fact in a corner making out with this Bahian Salsa Dancer. When we were back in the US, Heidy said, "Cassandra, we never saw you drunk." Then I had to confess that I was in fact, drunk." Also I had to confess what I was doing with that crazy dancer on the roof of Sankofa Bar.
In Zanzibar, I learned, the hard way, that the word for Shark is also the word of Vagina, in Swahili. I actually think that’s pretty cool.
One time in Brazil, a host family showed Marcela and I porn, hard porn, and I was more shocked than embarrassed, still not sure why that happened. Yesterday at my Social Change class dinner we engaged in a rather transformative activity were we all shared our most embarrassing stories. If you are eyeing these words, that means that you are required to reciprocate with a response of your own most embarrassing moment. Nothing is too hot for facebook. And remember, as writers, we have no secrets.
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