By Michael McCarthy

Like every other traveler in the world, I have eaten things I don’t care to remember. In times of hunger, I have put things in my mouth for which a small child would receive a spanking. Anyone who has ever drained a cup of Tibetan butter tea, made of year-old rancid butter and smelling like an old hockey bag, with hairs floating in it and a flavor of rank socks, knows what I mean. So on those sublime occasions when