CONQUISTADOREE

One fish. Two fish. Red, blue, silver, with garlic, salt and… Wait, what am I doing? I haven’t eaten meat or fish in years. I haven’t even wanted to. And yet, as I stroll along this towel-dotted Spanish beach, my mouth salivates. My nose leads. And my eyes, which normally dart away thinking, “Poor little guys,” begin undressing these skewered sea creatures from their skins with the ravenousness of a starving sailor. I force my gaze towards the calming Mediterranean, away from the beach bar, or chiringuito, on this seashore in Málaga, Spain.
Since stepping foot onto the Costa del Sol, I’ve been fighting an intense craving for fish, which my morals have stopped me from eating. But the gastronomic fantasies won’t stop.
I envision my enticed hands intimately juicing plump lemon slices until each citric drop is absorbed by steaming mullet, hake, chanquetes, sardine espetos... I gently pinch. Soft flesh delicately slips right off the bone. Then it’s on my tongue, I’m moaning, and... As Dr. Seuss’ words bring on my guilt, another influential writer chimes in: "Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness."
I try to live by Mark Twain's wisdom, always diving headfirst into culture, never judging local habits. Do I really want to bypass this rich slice of Spanish culture? I wonder, What Would Michael Pollan Do? His books have greatly influenced my awareness of food at home in America and indeed led to my choice to avoid meat. But Málaga isn't America; the people here depend on seafood, physically and economically. Compared to American slaughterhouses and fishing practices, this town is a local farm and this chiringuito, a farmer's market.
I conclude that Mr. Pollan would snag a skewer, but will I follow suit? Maybe just being here is enough for me. The temptation alone has taught me volumes about myself and the town I'm visiting. Vegetarian travelers often struggle with the cuisine-versus-morals dilemma. So is Nemo on that skewer, or a mouthwatering meal?