Grapes Upside Down

9. Strawberry Sunset

~Madisen~

About eight of us head out together into the cool evening; I follow as the less directionally challenged navigate the bus and use phone GPS to locate the bar.

"Café Journal," I say aloud, intrigued by the name and pondering the fact that most people will never know the significance behind the names or titles others have selected with so much intentionality.

As we settle into a large wooden table with long benches, Noah takes my bandaged hand to examine it.

"¿Te duele?" He asks if it hurts.

"No, no mucho."

He advises me to unwrap it once we get home so that it can dry out and heal quicker.

My stomach performs a subtle flip of gratefulness. Noah is the kind of guy who will always make sure those around him are alright. His confident side comes out whenever he is in caretaker mode; it's very cute.

"No conseguí un dulce," I pout, complaining (with the wrong choice of verb—but I couldn't think of a better one) that I didn't receive a candy from the human piñata at our orientation, Glenn. My sweet tooth is incorrigible.

Noah produces a shimmery yellow ball from his sweatshirt pocket and unwraps it for me.

"Oh, yay!" I clap my hands with childish enthusiasm, accepting the chocolate and biting into crispy, creamy deliciousness.

"¿Rico?" Noah stares at me, the swirled tones of green in his eyes intense.

"Pruébalo." I extend the remaining half of the Bon o Bon towards his face to share, but he subtly shirks back and removes it from my fingers, popping it into his mouth.

"You're practically kissing," the guy on the other side of Noah jokes loudly, leaning towards us. I think his name is Armani.

Noah blushes fiercely, which I find adorable. Despite his overall self-assured nature, he is a bit bashful at times.

The menu features cocktails with exotic descriptions and random names, many of which are in English. I select the Strawberry Sunset.

"It's strange being able to go into a bar and just order a drink, right?" I ask Clara in Spanish, who is seated across from me. The legal drinking age here is eighteen, as compared to twenty-one back in the States. She and I are both twenty still.

"This beer is disgusting," she replies, making a sour face and pushing it towards the center of the table with indignance.

"What is it?" Noah inquires, helping himself to a sip.

"Crystal."

"Yep, that's bad," Noah concurs, licking his lips as if attempting to remove a hair from his tongue.

"Order something else," I urge, but Clara merely huffs and slides the beer back in front of herself in defeat.

"Okay, so what's up with your host family?" I ask, leaning forward and placing my hands on her arms in affection.

"Well, first of all, they're old," she begins, which I imagine she would have phrased more tactfully if speaking in her native language.

I snort through my straw, nearly inhaling a giant gulp of my strawberry drink, which is quite strong.

"They're old?"

"That's not the problem!" she defends. "It's just, everyone else has host brothers and sisters their age, or you have Noah... but I don't know what to talk to them about. They basically keep asking me the same questions over and over again."