Kiwis
This is a story about a terrible mistake.
Once Crissie and I were riding a train (bus?) through northern Italy.
Out the window we saw fields and fields of kiwis.
This surprised me.
Italy is famous for many foods.
Kiwis are not one of them.
And, at the time, I thought kiwis grew only in New Zealand, which was why people from New Zealand were called “kiwis.”
I was quite wrong, on multiple levels, but that’s not the terrible mistake I’m talking about in this story.
*
Our ride ended, we got off the train (bus?), and found ourselves in front of a farmer’s market.
And guess what?
A woman there was selling kiwis!
*
Now I like kiwis.
I was curious to know what an Italian kiwi tasted like.
And it was lunch time and I was hungry.
We could have kiwis for lunch!
How much? I asked.
One euro for one kilo, the kiwi woman said.
And that’s when I made the terrible mistake.
*
Being an American, from America, I had a simple understanding of metric units.
What they said meant what we said but less.
For example, we said miles, they said kilometers.
And 1 kilometer was 0.6 miles.
We said inches, they said centimeters.
And 1 centimeter was 0.4 inches.
We said pounds, they said kilograms.
So, following this pattern, I figured 1 kilogram must be, more or less, half a pound.
I gave the kiwi woman 10 Euros to buy 10 kilograms—which I thought would be 5 pounds—of kiwis.
*
Five pounds of kiwis is a lot of kiwis, but it’s not a crazy lot if that’s what two hungry people are planning to eat for lunch, plus leftovers.
I was quite wrong, though, about units.
Yes, 10 miles are more than 10 kilometers, and 10 inches are more than 10 centimeters.
But this is not the universal pattern I thought it was.
It turns out that 10 kilograms is more than 10 pounds, in fact.
10 kilograms is 22 pounds.
And that’s how many kiwis the woman gave me in two big bulging plastic bags.
*
Crissie laughed when she was what I had done.
She gamely ate two kiwis and called herself satisfied.
I ate eight and was still nowhere near denting the top of a single bag.
We walked through town, wearing our heavy backpacking backpacks.
In my arms, I carried the 20 pounds of remaining kiwis.
*
The afternoon sun shined brightly, as it does in agricultural communities during the growing season.
I sweat.
It was a small town.
Locals smiled as we passed them.
Kiwi? I offered.
No, no, they waved me away.
Crissie, embarrassed, scooted ahead of me.
*
I really wanted to get rid of the extra kiwis.
I couldn’t, though.
Dropping them on the ground would be littering.
The only trash receptacle we passed was too small to fit even one of the bags.
It was like I was traveling with twin pet dinosaurs.
Wherever I went, there was nowhere big enough to fit them, too.
My pet dinosaurs were the kiwis.
*
I walked and walked, steadily slumping, until we reached the edge of town.
Crissie said it was time to turn back to catch our next bus (train?).
I looked up.
In front of us was a field of kiwis, just like the ones we’d seen out the window our whole ride here.
I knew what I had to do.
*
I dropped my backpack and hurried to the nearest row.
I poured out the kiwis I’d bought.
I stacked them in neat pyramids for the farmer to find the next time he or she came out to harvest.
I felt like a kid sneaking velociraptors into Jurassic Park.
“Welcome home!” I told the kiwis.
I stuffed the plastic bags in my pockets and tiptoed away.
*
I shouldered my backpack again and rejoined Crissie.
An hour later, we were riding to our next destination.
My stomach hurt and my arms were sore, but I had never felt so free.
I learned a valuable lesson that day.
DO NOT F*** WITH KILOGRAMS!