Never Go Against the Family

... Now you come and say "Don Corleone, give me justice." But you don't ask with respect. You don't offer friendship. You don't even think to call me "Godfather."

The above quote is obviously from The Godfather. I need not even state it. But it could easily be from my day to day life. You see, most of the ingrates around here don't even realize that this summer I became The Godfather to a small Peruvian child...

It all started at 13,000ft during my last week in Peru on a relatively remote island in the world's largest high altitude lake. I was staying in the home of a local host family, which like all others on the island, lacked electricity or running water. What it did have was a spectacular view across Lake Titicaca to the Peruvian mainland and some serious snow-capped Andean peaks in Bolivia. It also was only a stone's throw away from a makeshift bar.
The odds were already stacked against me. How could I have possibly come out of this NOT a Godfather (or a father for that matter)?

After a night of traditional dancing with the local women, most of whom seemed to be single but also 4ft 8 max, we sought out said bar.
Unfortunately it turned out to be little more than a neighbor's house, and midnight in an agrarian society is typically too late to be up watching infomercials and considering purchasing the Ginsu knife. So like good tourists eager to support the local economy, we awoke the sleepy "barkeep," knowing that our American dollars were probably worth more than their REM sleep. A few cases of Cristal later (unfortunately, Cristal is also a bad Peruvian beer), we somehow found --and purchased!-- a bottle of Jose Cuervo (also a bad Peruvian beer).
Safely back in Mexico, the night quickly deteriorated. A few hours later my 6ft 4 American friend and 4ft 8 host mother were literally carrying me back to my bed, while I expounded on plate tectonics and volcanic eruptions (double entendre intended).

When the sun came up some few hours later, I was awoken to the lovely sound of God's voice outside my window. Apparently Priests only make it to this delightful corner of Peru every few years (hard to believe in such a Catholic country) but today just so happened to be a day that a Belgian Priest was visiting the island. Such short notice was call for drastic measures. Apparently I'd done much to impress the night before and my host mother was quick to ask me to attend her 10 year-old son's baptism before my boat left my hungover ass a-sea. At least that's what I thought she said.

Fifteen minutes later I'd eaten my Peruvian pancake breakfast, had a wadfull of coca leaves in my lip and was well on my way to attend the ceremony.
Turns out in my stupor, I'd misunderstood my host mother and had agreed to become 10 year-old Hederson's Godfather - a minor detail, especially for a Jew.
The worst part is, it wasn't until I got back to the States and relayed the story to everyone that I realized what being a Godfather really means. It's not about being there on Sundays and special occasions -- something I'm ok with knowing I'll never do for this kid-- it's about helping foreigners get student visas and paying college tuition bills. This was all slightly more than I'd bargained for in my post-cuervo delirium.

I'm currently at a crossroads with my decision to abort this relationship. On the one hand, it'll be years before Google Maps arrive on his island and he can finally track me down. On the otherhand, I don't want to be the next Peruvian tourist who ends up dead so my fat can be sold for cosmetic lotions (see here).
So when you ask me why I'm not headed to Canoe this weekend or to NY to visit, just remember it's because I'm the Godfather, and you never go against the family.