I loathe Orange Fanta. I nearly tossed my cookies during my three-hour fasting glucose test because the lab technician gave me orange soda. It all began with a little fun in the country (el pueblo).
My lovely host parents invited me to spend the weekend with them at the house of Mari Flor’s parents. I went out with Mari Flor’s brother, Richard to a local discotheque in the middle of nowhere. I decided to drink whatever everyone else was drinking. I was still in my mute stage at that point. I really did not talk much. I was trying to desperately to listen to everything and really understand. So I started drinking screwdrivers except these were made with cheap vodka and orange Fanta.
Richard discovered that I could dance. I needed to do something other than just smile and sit in a corner. I learned how to salsa and rumba. I was being spun around and around. See mom all my years of ballet, tap, pointe and jazz paid off! I can pick up most dances fairly quickly. Except all that alcohol and all that spinning was a combination for disaster.
On our way back to the house, I realized that I had become that typical image that I wanted so desperately to avoid during my stay in Spain – the completely drunk American student who was about to lose her lunch. Except I needed to alert the driver about this issue. I blurted out in broken Spanish “Necesitas parar el coche ahora!” (You need to stop the car now!) Richard opened the door for me, and I threw up on the side of the road.
I woke up the next morning with the worst hangover that I had experienced that point and fully clothed with shoes on. Did I mention that I wore my Timberland hiking boots a lot when I was in Spain? My feet felt as heavy as my head did. I washed up and changed clothes to come downstairs for lunch only to have a wonderful lunch of rice and chorizo. I could barely eat a bite of the chorizo without gagging. I still do not partake of any chorizo or orange Fanta to this day.