Grapes Upside Down

17. Tea

~Madisen~

On the way into Valpo, my belly rumbles as if the bread and jam from this morning's breakfast is churning into cement inside my intestines.

Three weeks into the program, I had yet to experience any effects from the water or less stringent refrigeration standards of Chile. I was feeling pretty darn smug about my stomach of steel, until my digestive system went up in flames at 5:00am this morning.

Groggy from a late night, I'm lacking any sense of excitement for my first session of volunteer work at the girls' home in Quintero, a region of Valparaíso.

Even though I had fun on last evening's impromptu date with Alessio, I can't get over the surly attitude that has overtaken Noah ever since I ditched Samira's party. Though I did text before leaving the Casino to let him know of my plans, I can tell he's upset with me. I imagine he thinks going out alone at night with a stranger was an unnecessary risk. Noah seems very protective of his sisters; he probably feels responsible for my safety as well, as my fake brother.

I fiddle with my phone, drafting a couple messages to Noah before deleting them. Squinting out the window at the bold rainbow of houses passing by—pink, blue, green, grey, yellow—too many minutes tick heavy with growing dread in my chest.

When I glance at my watch, I know immediately that I'm lost. Sofía, from Aventuras Chile, traveled with me last Friday to introduce me to the director of the girls' home. One opportunity to learn the route was not enough for my directionally challenged brain, and as my eyes dart around the unfamiliar neighborhood, it's clear that I have either taken the wrong micro or missed my stop.

"Perdón," I pester the driver, my voice timid. "¿Ya pasamos Quintero?" It's likely not even the right question. I'm not clear on the difference between cities, provinces, regions and neighborhoods.

"Quintero... ¿Adónde quieres ir?" He asks where I'm trying to go.

I tell him, stupidly, that it's girls' home in Quintero. Of course, I don't even know the name of the place. Next, I offer the street name, butchering its pronunciation while the driver tilts his neck to extend his ear closer to me, maintaining focus on the road ahead.

After a labored conversation in which I pretend to understand the directions, I step off the bus at the next stop. Unlike the previous time I was lost in Chile, I'm not panicked, only supremely irritated at myself.

My phone rings, and it's the director asking if I'm still planning to visit today. When I explain my situation, she attempts to help, but it's difficult for her to direct me since I have no idea where I am and can't understand a word she's saying over the phone.

"The girls have lunch at noon, and today there's an afternoon activity planned. Since it's already so late, why don't you try again next week?"

"Okay. I'm sorry," I sigh with defeat. My eyes prickle with heated embarrassment. The voice on the phone is polite and matter-of-fact but lacks any hint of the consolation I'm craving.

When people make mistakes, we all yearn for someone to affirm our intelligence and general competency despite the error. The tone I interpret from every Chilean when I do something idiotic, however, reads as: Yes, you are indeed an idiot.

I walk a few blocks before locating a micro that will take me back home to Viña. On the half-hour ride, I sketch a comic for Eliana about two porcine named Prancie and Kiki. My sister is obsessed with pigs.

In this episode, Kiki gets lost on the way to meet Prancie for vanilla crème cupcakes and tea. Prancie is agitated because she's simply famished. When Kiki finally arrives, they each eat three cupcakes and drink several cups of mint tea with their pinkies daintily extended.