My favourite part of the fish, I say.

The doughy, chalky eye squishes between my teeth, explodes all over the right side of my mouth.

It doesn’t even taste of anything, really, but the thick texture makes me want to hurl.

A little bit of puke comes up, but I swallow it back down along with the eye.

And now there’s a thick, fish eye coating all over the back of my tongue, and I can’t get rid of it.

Don’t they put water on the tables here?

For sure, I will never eat another stinking fish eye, ever again.

Have the other one if you want, says Akemi, smiling.

And like an idiot, I pluck the other eye out and put it in my mouth.

F

OURTEEN

For the second time since I’ve been here, I’m doubled over.

Puking my guts out.

My diaphragm aches with the effort, my throat burns as the acid ejects.

The fish head intestine stew didn’t spend too much time in my stomach, but I did chug a lot of it, so there’s little chunks of it splattered all over this guy’s shop stall.

All over his neat display of purses and handbags.

The river of night market punters slows to investigate, giggling and crowding forward to get me on video. Hey, good for you guys.

The stall owner is talking at me, but Taiwanese people sound angry all the time, even when they’re not, so I can’t tell if he’s actually pissed off. Me? I’d be shitting rusty nails if some kid came and barfed all over my absorbent, un-wipeable, home-made goods.

I can’t help but laugh. This is what happens when you pretend to like things you don’t like.

What’s he saying, I ask Akemi, blocking a sick belch with my fist.

You don’t know? she says.

I steady myself on the stall, shake my head.

I swear you spoke Mandarin when we first met, she says.

I shake my head again.

He’s worried about you, she says, checking you’re okay.

And I say, I am not okay. My insides and throat feel like they are on fire.

The guy disappears and comes back with a glass of water and a towel. I drink, and the ice cubes make a nice clinking sound and the cold water makes me feel better.

Shit, I’m sorry about your stall, I say, looking at the mess I made.

He repeats a phrase twice and waves his hand – Don’t worry about it.

For real, I say, I’ll pay for all this stuff, just tell me how much.

The phrase comes out again and he hands me a T-shirt from the back wall of the stall – a spot I managed to miss. I look down at my fishy, pukey clothes.

Cheers, I say.

Another food stall, another plastic table. Akemi is smiling at me.

You look like a real tourist now, she says, admiring the pink T-shirt that says I <3 TP on the chest.

It’s two sizes too small for me, so my belly pops out from the bottom like a little piggy.

Please, I say. No more seafood.

She hands me a hot, steaming golden bar wrapped in a paper towel.

I look over her shoulder at the kitchen she got it from, and there’s a long queue of people snaking down the street, waiting to get their orders in.

Try it, she says. You’ll like it.

I sniff it, and it seems harmless enough, so I bite, and I crunch, and I burn my tongue, but then I get to smooth, sweet ice cream on the inside.

It’s nice, I say.

See? she says.

I’m not getting any of that Antarctic chill that usually comes off this girl back in the hotel. She’s more smiley, for one. And without the hotel uniform she almost looks relaxed.

You know, making me sick is a funny way of saying sorry.

You were acting like you loved fish eyes, she says. Maybe you should have just been honest.

No lie, the girl is right.

This ice cream definitely makes up for it, I say. You are forgiven.

How come you don’t speak Chinese? Or Taiwanese?

I swallow the last of the deep-fried ice cream. Any chance of another one of these?

F