Alison's Adventures Crazy Canadian, still backpacking the world after breaking my back snowboarding in France! Come explore with me :)

Snow falls from the sky in chunks of colourless cotton candy. Bea Müller and I wander through the maze of wooden stalls, nestled beneath half-timbered houses covered in white blossomed mistletoe.
The Stuttgarter Weihnachtsmarkt is ripe with aromas of sugary Lebkuchen and greasy Bratwursts smothered in sauerkraut. Bea and I warm our fingertips and lips with mugs of steaming Apfel-Zimt Gluhwein. We walk the lightly-floured cobblestone streets, pausing to admire handcrafted gifts and traditional Christmas ornaments. We walk until our feet grow sore and our conversation lulls, at which point Bea invites me back to her apartment for dinner.
The streets are dark and muffled with heavy snow. As I enter Bea’s apartment, I am immediately smacked in the face with intense smells of spiced stew. A tall, dark-haired Algerian man stands stooped over the stove. Bea introduces him as her boyfriend.
Yasser doesn’t speak a word of English. His first language is Arabic; his second French, which him and I communicate through with ease. Unfortunately for Bea, who only speaks German, their conversations rest mainly on the powers of Google Translate.
Yasser urges me to sit at the small circular table in the corner of the one-room apartment. The stew he pours into my bowl is red, thick, and piping hot. The radiating smells are intoxicating. I dig in eagerly, my plastic spoon nearly breaking at my ravenous ecstasy. I chew the spiced vegetables and stringy meat, letting the flavour seep into my taste buds.
“Do you like it?” Yasser asks.
“It’s incredible,” I sigh.
“It’s an Algerian speciality,” he tells me proudly.
“What’s in it?” I ask.
“Cow heart.”
I pause mid-chew. My eyes drop to the bleeding liquid in front of me. I twirl my spoon around the contents, procuring chunks of easily recognizable organs. I swallow slowly and close my eyes, remembering the countless free meals I have shoveled down my gullet without question while backpacking the world.
There was the terrible texture of the fried pig’s blood I ate for breakfast in Scotland, the “mystery meat” in my burger in Bali, and the full duck, served with eyeballs intact, in Beijing. My mind conquers my rolling stomach as I remember crickets, crocodile, kangaroo and moose meat, all masticated, swallowed, and enjoyed.
I turn my gaze back to Yasser and offer him a broad smile. Strands of gristly red meat are caught in my teeth. “I think I’ll have seconds,” I say, refilling my bowl.