During the spring of 1980, I graduated from college on a Thursday afternoon and landed in Manila three days later. I spent the summer working for a bank, where I made great friends and developed a lasting affection for the Philippines.

The country is comprised of about 7,000 islands. I never traveled to Samar Island or Leyte, which suffered the worst of Typhoon Haiyan earlier this month. But having seen construction standards elsewhere, I understand why the devastation is so horrific.

I hope you will join me and make a donation to the relief effort. I made my contribution through the Red Cross, but there are many organizations helping out. I’m happy to see aid flowing into the country through any legitimate operation.

The following anecdote comes from my summer in Manila. Every word is true, some more than others.

Fish Eyes

The Marcos family governed the Philippines in 1980. I lived in Makati, which was the ritzy end of downtown Manila. But the long-term hotel where I stayed was an outlier. Seedy. Run down. Every surface was an outbreak of hepatitis on the come.

I’d either wake to cockroaches, which ruled my room no matter what I tried. Or to sounds of the local sex trade, which is how the hotel stayed in business.

Given these challenges, I stayed away as much as possible. There was nothing I loved more than losing myself in the city. Manila is loaded with sights, sounds, and smells that don’t exist anywhere in the USA.

In the mornings on the way to work, I listened to the street vendors call in slow, relaxed tones, “Balut.” It’s a breakfast delicacy—a boiled, fertilized duck embryo served in the shell. From what I understand, it’s kind of crunchy.

During the evenings I prowled the streets, never quite sure what I would find. There was this bar called Daktari—yeah, it was a go-go bar—that housed two nine-foot Siberian tigers behind the building.

That’s me, a thousand pounds ago, sitting on the back of the tiger. The owner distracted the animal by feeding it steaks. I look at this picture now and wonder if I were insane.

Whatever.

One afternoon that July, my best friend from work offered to lead an expedition to Chinatown. I’ll call him Martin. He’s Chinese Filipino and now, over thirty years later, my daughter’s godfather.

Martin asked if I wanted to go.

“Of course. I’m in.” So were most of the people in the office. I think twenty, maybe thirty, of us headed to Chinatown for dinner.

One member of our party was a woman I’ll call Janet. She grew up on an Illinois farm and had never been out of the state. The country was a bold step for a first-time traveler, and she was as green as they come. Even I thought Janet was naïve, and I’m the one who arrived in the Philippines wearing a seersucker suit.

At the restaurant, Martin explained why our waiter was fileting a Lapu-Lapu without turning it over. “Bad luck to flip the fish.”

After the waiter finished, Martin mesmerized Janet and me with his stories about Chinese culture. “Fish eyes are a delicacy.” With skill that rivaled our waiter, he grabbed a spoon, scooped out an eye, and popped it into his mouth

“Delicious.” He held up the fish head and offered me the other. “Try it. Come on.”

“No way.” You’ve got to be kidding. I wouldn’t even eat balut.

Janet was game.

Careful not to flip the fish, Martin scooped out the other eye. “Best to chew, so you get all the flavor.”

Chew she did. Janet looked like she bit into a lemon, her face one wrinkle after another. As that fish eye slid down her throat, it looked like she had grown an Adam’s apple.

Martin beamed big and bright. “What’d you think?”

Janet glanced around nervously. We were all staring, waiting for her verdict. “I don’t care for it.”

“Me either.” Martin opened his hand, and there it was—the fish eye he had supposedly popped into his mouth.

Everybody laughed, Janet the loudest of all. If anything, she was the one, true adventurer in our crowd.

By the way, Martin is a prankster who spares no one. In a future post I’ll explain why you never, ever say, “Mabaho ka,” to anyone who speaks Tagalog. And to think…I practiced three days to perfect the pronunciation.