I just got back from a family vacation in Fortaleza, Brazil. Our group was made up of three generations traveling from three different cities. It was a great trip and some memories will be with me forever. Which is only slightly longer than all the meat I consumed will be.
If Rio is looking to present an honest and endearing image of itself to the world during next year’s Olympic Games, they should build a barbeque pit in the international terminal and welcome each flight with a free lunch. “Welcome to Brazil! Have a plate of meat!”
A plate of meat, piled as high as it was wide, and a mojito made with a shot of white rum and 32 scoops of sugar was my lunch each day of our stay at the all-inclusive resort. Because once you’ve decided on the all-inclusive vacation, you’ve clearly made self-indulgence your primary goal for the week. No point in trying to hide it under a few leaves of arugula with olive oil.
Of course, visiting an all-inclusive with the entire family does limit the extent to which a person can self-indulge. Vacationing with my only-child who prefers me to any other person in the world, (She’s 4 and hasn’t met a wide range yet.) meant that I did not get the writing and reading time I would have liked. Being unable to pass out under a palm tree with a book on my face due to parenting responsibilities, I compensated by giving my stomach completely uninhibited and unrestrained access to every buffet at every meal.
Puddings, steak, french fries, cakes, risottos, Prosecco, sandwiches, salad, cappuccinos, tarts, omelets, shrimp, cheeses, mussels, chicken, soft drinks, sausages, pasta, mousse, fruit juices, fish, rice, beans, ice cream, croissants, pineapples, and pork were all consumed with reckless abandon. Lunch involved at least three plates; the grilled meat got it’s own plate of honor. Breakfast would take over an hour and I survived the long stretch between lunch and dinner by indulging in the afternoon tea, which included no tea but lots of cake. It was four days of eating as if life was free of consequences. All consumption and no exertion. It was glorious and delicious. I didn’t worry or go to the bathroom from Tuesday to Saturday.
Actually, I did start to worry on Saturday but not because I was feeling awful. I got worried because I didn’t feel awful. My rational-self kept waiting for the effects of my week-long bacchanalia to catch up with me. That part of me knew no person could eat with total abandon for long and not feel utterly disgusting. And that part of me waited. And waited. Meal after meal after, I filled my plate and went back for more, my taste buds rejoicing in how life could be if I didn’t care about staying a size 8 or living past 45, and I felt fine.
Saturday’s lunch was fish stew, fried shrimp, pork chops, rice, and french fries. I ate some of everything washing it down with a Coke. I enjoyed every bite and would have eaten a few more french fries if they hadn’t cleared the plates. On the walk back to the hotel, I wondered if I should seek help.
As we hid out from the tropical sun for a few hours in our room (because too much sun is really terrible for you), the hotel staff dropped off complimentary bottled water and coconut candy. My husband opened up one of the candies, took a small bite, and abandoned it on the table saying “Wow, that is too sweet.” So I immediately went over and finished it.
I popped the last bite in my mouth, swallowed it, and thought “I will never eat anything again.”
With that last bite of coconut candy, I hit my food wall. The full weight of every meal landed on me and left me in a fetal position on the bed. That was it. I was done eating. Possibly for the rest of my life. It took four and a half days, but I found my physical limit for food consumption.
I’m back home and in my normal routine that includes exercise and vegetables. My parents have gone back to the States and my daughter is back in daycare. I’m already looking forward to our next vacation, but perhaps a camping trip would be healthier.
I’ll bring the s’mores!!!
