I thought I was ready for anything when I landed in Guangdong. Crowded markets? Bring it. Monsoon humidity? I packed extra deodorant. But my real education began the night my roommate Wei leaned over in our sticky dorm and said, “Let me show you actual Cantonese hospitality.”

Twenty minutes later, we were wedged into a plastic stool at a street stall that looked like someone’s garage kitchen. The menu was a handwritten scroll of characters I couldn’t read, but Wei ordered with the confidence of a food critic. When the steaming bowl arrived, I smiled politely at the herbs floating in the broth. Then I spotted the stripes.

“Snake,” Wei said, slurping a spoonful like it was chicken noodle. “Good for your skin. And courage.”

My stomach did a backflip. Back in Ohio, “adventurous eating” meant trying the gas station sushi. But three old ladies at the next table were watching me like judges on a cooking show. I channeled my inner Anthony Bourdain.

First sip: surprisingly… herbal? Like licorice tea brewed in a gym sock. The texture? Imagine if calamari had an identity crisis. I forced a nod. “Tastes like… uh… earthiness?”

Wei snorted. “You sound like a wine review.”

The grandma beside us cackled, plopping a pickled plum on my plate. “Foreign boy needs stronger stomach!” she declared. “Next time, we eat jiaoyan chongzi!” (I later Googled it. Salted insect pupae. Thanks, Auntie.)

But here’s the thing nobody tells you about “gross” food moments: They’re the ultimate icebreaker. By dessert (mango pudding, mercifully normal), Wei was teaching me Cantonese slang, the grandmas were showing off photos of their grandsons (“Very single! Good at math!”), and I’d accidentally promised to join their mahjong club.

Now when my buddies back home ask about “weird” food here, I just smirk. “Snake soup’s basically chicken noodle for the adventurous,” I tell them. “But fair warning—it comes with free life advice and matchmaking services.”

Turns out, the secret to surviving Guangdong isn’t mastering chopsticks or memorizing phrases. It’s learning to laugh when your dinner looks back at you—and realizing that “home” can taste like snake broth and grandmotherly teasing.

Still drawing the line at those pupae, though. Some cultural bridges get built one cautious bite at a time.