A Spanish luncheon


***Warning…this post contains graphic material…it may not be appetizing to some…

This past weekend my boss Carmen hosted a bbq at her partner Jim’s house in Las Negras (a pueblo in Cabo de Gata natural park).  Jim is an American but has lived in in Spain for the last 30 years and has a chiropractic business.  Anyway, so I hitched a ride with Rosa (my coworker), her husband (Javier), Alex, and  Tony (my English coworker).  We met up at school, piled into the tiny coupe, and took off.  The trip out to Las Negras (not just a la vuelta de la esquina) is about an hour torturous drive of winding, shoulderless roads  and tight curves perched haggardly over the Mediterranean…locals drive fearlessly and ferociously.  About halfway though the ride waves of nausea started to roll though me…Inesperadamente.   I leaned my forehead against the window (it’s chilly here now, a high of only about 50 during the day), cracked the window, rolled it up, down halfway, then closed it.  “Uh oh,”  I mouthed to Al.  “You need to stop?”  I shook my head no and continued to mess with the window.  They decided to stop at a scenic overlook and as we slowed down I put my hand on the door.  “Um, Kira needs to get out,” Al told Rosa.  “Yes we are stopping now,” she said as her husband slowly pulled in, back up, and…Hmmm…how to say this…It was like someone turned on the faucet full blast.  At least I was able to open the door (and the projectile had more than enough force) so as not to dirty the car.  “Pobreciiiiiiita,” I heard Rosa say as I scuttled toward privacy (someone turned the faucet again).  I got as far away as I could before a final round came pouring out of my mouth.  I shamefully rejoined the group.  Que verguenza!!! “It’s ok,” they all assured me, “it happens to a lot of people.”   2 more car rides equals you can guess what.  Once we were finally at Jim’s house, I was able to relax, eat a little bit of food, and enjoy some sobremesa with pleasant company.  One of Carmen and Jim’s neighbors joined us and was a great source of entertainment.  Anne, a soon-to-be-93-year-old woman from England kept things lively with her sharp wit and healthy appetite.  After she left, we all remarked on how well-with it she still was.  “She parked her car in the middle of the street,” was Jim’s pointed response.  “When you see her coming, you get out of the way.”  The post-meal consisted of bonbons from Rosa (Carmen likened their dishevelment to my stomach), ice cream, biscotti, coffee, whiskey, pachano (a potent Spanish rum made from sloe berries), and tequila.  I think it goes without saying that I passed on the alcohol (well, I did have to sample the rum.  When in Rome…)  We said our good-byes (I was profuse in my apologies) and headed back.    After we returned home (minus the ralphing this time) my appetite roared and my dearest boyfriend, fearing the wrath of hungry Kira, took me out for pizza.  THE END.

Carmen, Rosa, Me, Alex, Tony, Anne, and Jim

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