The Grand Canyon is impressive. The walls, the river, the silence... and then there are the Americans talking.
First or second night. Dinner around the stove. I'm half exhausted, half happy, when I start to hear them repeat a word that makes me raise my eyebrow faster than a fast class V:
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Semen, semen… Semen River… The semen is good
And I was thinking:
"Excuse me... But why are these people talking so much about semen while we're eating?"
I try to maintain my composure. Cultural exchange, I tell myself. They're Americans; maybe they have a more open relationship with... their bodily fluids. But of course, it just keeps getting worse.
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The Semen is amazing
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I’ve done the Semen twice
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You should really try the Semen
And I no longer know if I'm on a rafting expedition or in a very poorly explained group therapy session.
That's when my brain just goes off the rails. For days I've been accumulating dirty thoughts, sidelong glances, and a very un-Zen inner silence. The river roars, the eagles fly... and my mind is stuck in an absurd loop between human biology and dubious gastronomy.
One of the dinners from the early days arrives. They open the refrigerator and someone proudly announces:
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Tonight we’re cooking semen.
Finally, when I see the dinner, I get it! The American pronunciation of "salmon" sounds like "semen."
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Until Monday.
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A river.
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A piece.
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No semen!
Everything falls into place. All at once. I explain it to the whole group around the fire and realize that I'm the only one with such a "dirty" mind. And that's when I understood two things:
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English can be very tricky when you come from a tired Latin mind.
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Never underestimate how dirty your brain can get when you've been sleeping on sand for several days, rowing hard, and listening to happy Americans talk about "how much they love salmon."
Since then, every time I hear that word... I smile.
And I remember the Grand Canyon, the Colorado River...