Grapes Upside Down

7. Pan Batido

~Madisen~

"¡Madisen, el desayuno está listo!"

I bolt upright at Graciela's words, knowing I've overslept.

"Gracias," I call awkwardly. My phone screen flashes 10:01am. I jump out of bed, throw on the first clothes I see and pull my hair into a messy bun. The bedroom is a disaster area from the haphazard manner in which I shoved everything off my bed after falling asleep.

Rushing out of my room in embarrassment at having slept so late, I screech to a halt after nearly plowing down Noah in the hall. He's wearing sweatpants and a different white T-shirt from the Coca-Cola drenched garment of last night's McDonald's catastrophe.

"¿Te acabas de despertar?" Relieved, I verify if he, too, has also just woken up.

"Sí." He shifts his feet, flushing, and the memory of putting my hands on his stomach last night clues me in to his evident discomfort. I either scared him or turned the poor guy on.

"¿Vas al baño?"

He shakes his head and gestures towards the dining room. Perhaps he isn't a morning person, judging by his lack of communication in what is quickly becoming an uncomfortable interaction.

I duck into the bathroom. After splashing some cold water on my face, I re-evaluate the tank top I've thrown on, which is showing off a little more than intended. I hustle to throw a sweatshirt over it, despite the muggy heat hanging throughout the house, then trot to the dining table.

Graciela and I exchange a cheek kiss as I apologize for sleeping in. She assures me it was to be expected after all our travels, her warm demeanor putting me immediately at ease.

Do I greet Noah with a kiss? He dropped me off with one last night, but his body language this morning is stiff, so I settle for a quick tap on his arm as I pass behind him to reach my seat at the table.

"¿A qué hora tenemos que estar en Aventuras Chile?" I ask what time we are to meet Marcela and our group at the travel exchange headquarters.

"A las 4:00," Noah answers, his words scratchy.

"¿Perdiste tu voz?"

He clears his throat. "Aparentemente." Noah did his fair share of cheering at the concert, his energy level much higher than mine last night.

"Me gusté mucho su música," I comment, screwing up the conjugation of gustar—the first verb one learns when studying Spanish and the most difficult to master due to the way its grammar structure runs reverse to English. "Pero, soy una abuela," I whine, lamenting the fact that I was in such a lethargic grandmother state last night at the concert.

Noah finally cracks a slight smile, to my relief.

We tear apart large pieces of a new kind of bread—it's crunchy on the exterior with a warm, fluffy middle. Noah piles on a chunk of scrambled eggs that Graciela has served in a small cast iron skillet, while I carefully spread mashed up avocado across my roll. I pass Noah the plate of sliced ham and cheese; he hands me the pitcher of fresh fruit juice.

"Granadilla," Graciela tells me, when I sample a sip and examine the unusual pink color of the liquid in my glass.

"Pomegranate," Noah and I translate at the same time. He blinks at me with a sweet smile.

As we scarf down the delicious breakfast, Graciela informs us that her husband is out running errands. After lunch, they plan to visit his sister across town before he departs on an evening flight, returning to his job in the city of Concepción. I fail to catch his job title.