Chapter 54: Lost in Newtopia

Having already sampled everything the hotel had to offer, and then some, today was going to be the day that we got to explore the city itself. Unfortunately Hop Pop had first pick of group activities and we found ourselves trapped on a tour bus whose ultimate destination was the Newtopia Museum of Cheese. That's right. We were in Amphibia's biggest, most exciting city and we were going to check out a museum dedicated to a dairy product. As a veteran of many, many museum trips (Mom insisted on exposing me to anything even remotely educational that she could find), I knew that no good could come of this. Besides, couldn't we learn a lot more on the streets in the very bustling heart of Amphibian society, mingling with the common folk? It had to be way more interesting than some fossilized Gouda. Or whatever they called cheese here.

And so, Polly and I hatched a plan to get off the bus by faking serious intestinal distress. We would've taken Sprig too, but HP had thought ahead and handcuffed themselves together. I felt pretty bad leaving him behind, but we all knew the risks. Besides… it had been a long time since Polly and I really had the chance to bond, and this time I wasn't going to let gender conformity get in the way of a good time! We were just two vertebrates on the town with nothing holding us back!

I would like to tell you that we had a great time and absolutely nothing went wrong, but that would be a huge lie. But the two of us did learn some very important lessons during our trek through Newtopia's streets. As in, what not to do.

So, I'd like to present:

THE BOONCHUY-PLANTAR GUIDE TO HOW TO SURVIVE IN NEWTOPIA ON NO COPPERS A DAY

When traveling through Newtopia, there are three things, above all else, that you must keep in mind.

Rule #1: Don't Eat Like a Local

Way back on my first trip to Bangkok when I was but a wee lass of five, I was always fascinated by the food carts and stalls in the market place, selling snacks and dishes I'd never seen before, local specialties, unmodified to suit the Western palate. And I wanted to try everything. But my mom insisted that my delicate, SoCal born and raised constitution wasn't equipped to handle the level of spice that the locals were used to. It was my first hint that, though this was the land of my ancestry, I was still an outsider here. I was not Thai enough for Thailand. And that memory has haunted me to this day.

I didn't want the baby carrots.

Over the next eight years I was determined to increase my spiciness tolerance to the max. From eating raw jalapenos to shotgunning Cholula, I did everything I could to raise my tolerance levels, to the point where I became reasonably sure I could handle just about anything short of dipping my tongue in actual magma.

So, naturally, now that I had a chance to truly experience the heart of the city, the first thing I wanted to do was sample the street cuisine. I figured that after months of adapting to bugs, worms, and carnivorous plants as food, I would be able to handle anything.

What a fool I was!

I picked a cart completely at random, but the menu was entirely in some language I couldn't read, which is really weird since everyone I've met here speaks perfect English and ever piece of printed material I've seen is written in English. Which, if you really think about it, makes absolutely no sense. This is an entirely different world with an entirely different society, so it has to be the most contrived of coincidences that the local language is identical to mine. My all rights I shouldn't be able to communicate with anyone or read anything. It's almost as if the only reason I can is out of some sort of plot-essential convenience or something. Reminder to self: ask Marcy if she has any theories about this.

Let's get back on track: Since I couldn't read the menu, I just asked the vendor for two of whatever their biggest seller was. He gave us two of these burrito-ish thingys that… how do I describe the taste. Basically… Grind up the heart of the sun, fry it up in lava, and serve at room temperature… on Mercury. Long story short: I was not prepared. One bite and my entire mouth spontaneously combusted. And Polly? Polly was literally breathing fire. Not like some sort of exaggerated cartoon sight gag to abstractly illustrate the spiciness of food in a medium that can't engage the sense of taste, actual fire and smoke was coming out of her mouth, so much so that she literally set the food cart on fire.

And to make matters worse, it turns out street vendors don't take the Royal Credit Card. So not only couldn't we pay for lunch, but we were on the hook for wrecking the cart! Well, I hate to do this as the daughter of restaurant owners, but the two of us had one option; the old dine-and-dash.

Okay, so lunch was a bust, but we dd get to experience the thrill of being criminals, that's something right? And there was still plenty to do on the streets of Newtopia, which leads us to…

Rule #2: Don't Look Like a Local

So, next on the agenda: Shopping! And since the object was to blend in and not look all touristy, I had one specific thing in mind… tails.

See, newts can grow back their tails if they lose them (disgusting, but true!), but it takes a while, and until then they're walking around tailless. Which leads to a bustling economy of temporary tail replacement boutiques where the fashionable newt can pick up the perfect replacement!

Polly, naturally, chose the Thorny Rose, a spiky metal number. Adorable, yet dangerous. Just like her. Meanwhile, I picked out a model called the Jade Giant, the longest one they had available, 'cause I like to go big, and I assumed I could handle it.

I couldn't handle it! It was just too big and too unpredictable, and instead of blending in, we just drew more attention to ourselves and caused a local disturbance that got us chased by the cops. We managed to hide out in a passing parade (and the cops weren't really trying all that hard anyway).

Rule #3: Don't Party with the Locals

You would think that it was an odd coincidence that there just happened to be a parade going on. If either of us had bothered to check a newspaper or ask around, we would know that today was Igor Saltwater Memorial Day, commemorating the death of General Igor "The Brave" Saltwater, whose sacrifice ended the Great Bog War of '32.

Neither of us bothered to check a newspaper or ask around. So we had no idea what this parade was for or who the long snake-worm-fish-like puppet was supposed to represent. All I knew was I wanted to get in on what looked like an awesome celebration, so I grabbed hold of one of the poles (at least I asked first), and started goofing around, like this was some kind of silly puppet show.

So yeah, in an effort to not look like a clueless tourist, I not only firmly established myself as the most clueless of clueless tourists, but I got to be grossly culturally insensitive in the process. Yay me!

Let's review: So far, we'd dined-and-dashed, destroyed a food cart, injured several people , insulted a national hero, and caused a riot. Yeah, it was time to run. It didn't matter where to, just away from there. And preferably not past any of the other people we offended.

Which, of course, we did. Did you know Newtopian food carts can turn into battle wagons? We do now!

The one bit of good luck we had was that we managed to run all the way back to the tour bus. We had hundreds of angry newts on our proverbial tails, but we at least had somewhere we could take refuge… if we could get the angry mob to leave us alone!

And then I remembered lunch… and that the food cart was in reach. Once I grabbed another wrap and stuffed it in Polly's mouth, I had my very own makeshift flamethrower. Handy travel tip: a little fire will disperse any angry mob you may attract in your travels.

Which leads us to our final rule:

Rule #4: For the Love of Frog, Just Stay on the Tour Bus!

You may wind up at a boring cheese museum, but at least no one will be trying to kill you. At least until Sprig accidentally knocks an ancient wheel of Parmesan off its pedestal, causing it to roll into and destroy several valuable Roquefort sculptures… but that's a story for another time.


A.N.: This fic is a year old today, apparently!

Jose: True, but that doesn't keep Anne from feeling inadequate sometimes.

Ashley: Thanks!

MarMarFaAnne: We know she'd get along with Candace. :)

Next: Sprig Gets Schooled