My brother and I were in Spain for two weeks roughly seven years ago. My fifteen-year-old stomach had been incessantly craving french-fries and lemonade. The entire two weeks. We were generally in Granada, a moderately small city, that didn’t have a McDonalds. The fact that it didn’t have a McDonalds devastated me. Our meals were odd things like cold tomato soup, which is never good, and fish. With eyes and scales and bones. I inevitably ate the microscopic bones. They would get lodged in my throat, consequently forcing me to choke. Additionally, the food we were fed was in miniscule, diminutive proportions considering the colossal quantities we were raised on. We supplemented our “meals” with bread and chocolate and the occasional nibble of cheese. Aka we lived on bread.
So, when we arrived at the airport with a very modest amount of money left, we came to the desperate decision to use it on food, seeing as we had essentially starved for the previous two weeks. I was delighted to see that there were french-fries and lemonade. Real lemonade. From lemons. Every time I had ordered lemonade in Spain they took it to mean limonada. The servers had given me Sprite every time. Uni-lingual idiots. Not understanding the nuances of the English language in their native Spain! Anyway, I happily placed my order and started salivating like a rabid dog at the sight of the largest lemonade and french-fries offered. They placed it on a tray, I surrendered the very last of my money, and ran away with my treasure.
Every table and chair in the dining area was occupied. The smell of the fries tantalized me. Tortured me. I felt like I was being subjected to cruel and unusual punishment. My brother walked ahead of me, weaving his way through the countless chairs and tables positioned almost on top of each other. He squeezed through one particularly small area and I followed. As I turned sideways to wedge myself through the two chair backs my backpack hit something (it turned out to be somebody’s head) and I lost my balance. My hand, off-kilter, tilted the tray. My perfectly-balanced french-fries and lemonade toppled. I reached out with one of my hands to try and salvage some part of my heaven-sent meal. My outstretched fingers connected with an older woman’s breast and my greasy fries and extra-large drink plummeted onto her lap and chest.
“Oh my god!” she screamed in a thick English accent, her white hair bobbing as she jumped up.
“Oh my god!” I screamed as tears welled in my eyes for my lost little bit of bliss.
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