Out of My Comfort Zone

I had been loving Amsterdam until then.
Despite the clouds and occasional outbursts of rain, I toured the city with my grandparents like a child experiencing Disneyland for the first time: I was convinced no greater place existed on earth.
Our guide was less amused. He admitted that he had a phobia of umbrellas, evoked by a tragedy in his childhood, and therefore walked unguarded through the rain while we enjoyed ourselves.
Perhaps that’s why he took us to the food cart selling smoked herring.
Located off the main streets in a small plaza, the cart was whitewashed and occupied by only a man in his twenties who stood behind a counter piled with herring. The place reeked.
Our guide, however, explained the herring was delicious. So, even though I am not a seafood person, I agreed to try it.
He got an order for my grandparents and me to share. The young man behind the counter sliced two small, silver herrings, set them into a paper dish, and covered them with onions and pickles. When he handed me the plate, I made sure my slice of herring—a part of its body as I was not daring enough to try a head or tail—was covered in the condiments.
I nearly gagged nevertheless. It was the most revolting thing I had ever eaten, and I struggled to swallow so as to not spit it out in front of the guide and the vendor.
My grandmother had an even worse reaction than I did, spitting out the herring into a nearby trash can. My grandfather, however, seemed unfazed by the herring’s taste, eating a few slices.
“On a scale of one to ten, what did you think?” the guide asked.
“Three,” I said, trying to be nice.
“One,” my grandmother said honestly.
“Six,” my grandfather said, explaining that while it wasn’t his favorite, it wasn’t too bad.
As we left, our guide spoke rapid Dutch to the vendor. I caught something that sounded a bit like “Americans....”
My grandmother, who had been digging through her purse, took this opportunity to ask me, “Would you like a piece of candy?”
“Please!” I said, eager to get the foul taste out of my mouth. Both she and I sucked on the fruity candies with relief.
“Don’t I get a candy too?” my grandfather asked.
My grandmother jokingly gave him a hard time, but he quickly explained he had been trying to be nice.
For a while, that remained probably my least favorite memory of Amsterdam. Now, it’s undoubtedly one of my favorites. Every time I tell the story, I laugh and remember my disgust with fondness.
I can’t say that I would ever eat herring again though.