Memories of Sir Sandwich, Parte Deux

So, I wasn't intending on writing this post at all, but after my last post, my mom told me a story about my dad and sandwiches.

I think I may have mentioned that my dad grew up poor in Ecuador and that sandwiches are some of his favorite snack or rather, in his case, a meal.

It's funny, or ironic, how a habitual action while preparing food can trigger a memory.

My parents were in the kitchen together a few weeks ago.

My mother sitting at the table, drinking a cup of her ever favorite coffee, Iguaçu, taking her myriad of prescriptions and my father at the counter, making a sandwich. My father was rattling about with a small spatula knife, trying to get the last bits of mustard from a jar so he could spread it on his sandwich.

Mom said that he stopped what he was doing, turned around and told my mom the following story:

As a kid, my father would be invited to other kids' birthday parties.  At the party, there would be cake, of course. Along with cake, there would be finger foods, sandwiches being one of them.

Not sure if they looked like this, but this looks yummy. 

According to how my father described these sandwiches, he probably thought at the tender age of 10 that these were the bomb diggity!

He described small sandwiches with mortadela, cheese and mustard, among many other kinds of condiments. My father grabbed a sandwich and finished that sandwich and went to get a second, when he was brushed away by some old bat.

"No, no! No puedes comer el sándwich porque necesitamos guardar los otros para los demás!" said a woman to him (You can't eat the sandwich because we need to save the rest for everyone else).

Not only was my father a growing boy, and obviously hungry, but more than likely that may have been the only thing he would have eaten that day.  Though my father and my uncle grew up poor, my grandmother had a knack for making her children look fabulous with her dressmaking skills.

My father is on the left.

Apparently, my father thought that mustard was something fancy because my father, at 10 years old, WORKED a long time and SAVED his money to be able to purchase a little jar of mustard for his mother.

He then presented it to my grandmother, "Aquí, mamita. Esto es para tí. Ahora podemos comer los sándwiches como los ricos." (Here, Mommy. This is for you. Now we can eat sandwiches like the rich people.)

you get the idea

My mom told me this story and I began to sob. I had an image of my father presenting my grandmother with his treasured mustard that he worked for at TEN YEARS OLD.  My son is nine, and while he is very loving towards me, he wouldn't work THAT hard. My father, even to this day, is a hard worker and I wish there was a way that I could let him retire.

Perhaps when that happens, I could present him with a jar of mustard, with a bow on top.

I think my father would get the message.

The Adventure of Sir Sandwich

"You wanna a sandwich?" asks my father.

Sandwiches are my father's "go to" fix anytime he is hungry.

The fact is, my father is content eating whatever is served in front of him.  My father is simple. Most men are simple. My father is perfectly happy to snack on a sandwich whenever he feels like eating. The more simple, the better it is for him. My father grew up poor in Ecuador.  My grandmother would scrape together what she could to feed her three hungry boys.  So, if my father is not eating a sandwich, he either eats pasta or rice with tuna, green beans, peas and Italian dressing, or another favorite, Campbell's soup. His favorite is Campbell's Tomato Soup.

When I was in Kindergarten, I remember when he would pick me up from school early. We'd go home and he would fix me either a bowl of cereal or grind open a can of tomato soup..or Cream of Mushroom soup, or my personal favorite, Chicken Noodle. I shudder thinking of how clammy Cream of Mushroom soup would be. Barf.

I can eat cream of mushroom soup NOW as a grown up, but I think I despised it as a child because I couldn't stand the flavorless taste of the soup. As a child though, what kid wants to eat that? Certainly not me. I once feigned an "allergy" to soup in the E.R., but that will be another story.

Another time, I went home to visit with my older boy. GC was four or five at the time. We went home for Christmas.  GC was a very picky little boy though now he is willing to eat whatever kind of food.

"Giancarlo, you wanna sandwich? You want soup? Campbell's Tomato Soup?" my father would shout-ask.

"No thank you, Abuelo" and GC would go on his merry way.  I would try to make some elaborate dinner in the over or on the stove, but my father's complaint was "You're making the house too hot!". But anytime I'd make that elaborate dinner, he'd eat half of it anyways...  Mmmm, hmmm...

Anytime we would travel to visit obscure relatives in far away states, Mom would pack a cooler and Papi would have his lunch meat which mainly consisted of Bologna, Cotto Salami, Mayo and nasty American cheese slices. At rest areas, we'd stop to pee and then after using the bathroom, we'd eat our snacks.

"Oh, dis is SOOO good!" my father would exclaim in delight.  He would then proceed to inhale the entire sandwich and anything else that he found in the cooler. Which meant if I was saving something special, it was consumed with glee.

Back in September 2002, my father ended up going on a road trip alone with my Tio (Uncle) to Florida, where my great aunt lived. She unfortunately had passed away the day before my cousin's wedding.  The wedding went on as planned, but the funeral was held a few days later.

My uncle and dad drove all the way from Kansas City to Orlando for the funeral. To get to Orlando from the northwest, you'd normally take the Florida Turnpike.  The beginning of the turnpike starts near Ocala off of I-75, or the "Wildwood" exit.

My father and uncle stop there to gas up and use the restroom, get snacks, etc.  One such snack my father finds at this "obscure" gas station are some sandwiches. He goes to the counter and orders one, piled high with meats and all sorts of extra stuff that my father normally would never buy at the store because it would take too long for him to chop, slice or just too expensive for him to buy for his sandwiches. Both he and my uncle share this sandwich and continue on their way to Orlando. On their return trip, my father yet again stops at the sandwich shop, gets SEVERAL sandwiches for him and my uncle to snack on while in the car and they continue on their somewhat merry way back to Kansas.

Upon their return to the Sunflower State, Papi proceeded to tell my mom about this "nice place een Ocala!"

"Dey have de BEST SANDWICHES!  You can get whatever you want on them!" my father exclaimed.  "The next time we go to Orlando, we go dere. Okay?"

My mom's eyes got real big as my father described these delectable meats, types of bread and condiments you could get on this sandwich.  They would even TOAST it for you!

My dad's mouth watered as he described these sandwiches.  If there's anything my mom considers herself another expert on, it's how to eat a good sandwich.  "I, " she says with a stately pause, "am a gourmand!"

(Yeah. We'll see about that. That's another story.)

Apparently, this place was the bomb diggity, according to my dad!

For Spring Break 2003, my parents decided we would do a family trip to Orlando to visit our extended relatives and meet up with my other sisters while there.

The entire way from Kansas City to Ocala, all my father did except talk about these awesome sandwiches.

"All the meat you want, mamita!" my father exclaimed excitedly.

"Oh, how nice!  I can't wait!" my mom would exclaim in delight.

At one point on the drive down, my mom was listening to my dad repeat himself for the 327th time about these sandwiches, when she interrupted him.

"This isn't Subway, is it?" Mom asked.

My father with his hands on the wheels, turned in my mom's direction with a quizzical look.

"Subway? Wha's dat place?" Papi asked.

"It's a place where you get sandwiches, Papi." I told him.  "Remember, we went to Sandy's once and got sandwiches there?"

Oh, yeah, yeah! Uh huh, uh huh.  I remember. No, that's not this place.

We continued driving south on I-75 and finally cross into Florida.  The map indicated that we were still quite a ways from the exit we needed, about two more hours to go. We continued driving until we get to the Wildwood area and discover there is construction EVERYWHERE.  So much so that my father missed the exit.

The next exit was 7 miles down the road.

"I can't believe it!" my mom stated, with her fists clenched. "You missed the exit, Mario! I want that sandwich!"

It really was an easy mistake. Anybody not familiar with the area would have done the same. After backtracking 14 miles, we finally got to the exit.  Papi said it was near a gas station, which meant we would fill up our tank and then go into the restaurant to eat.

Making a right turn into the Sunoco gas station, we pull into a parking space and wouldn't you know what sign greeted us?

SUBWAY.

I, of course, thought it was funny and couldn't help but laugh in the back seat until I cried.  My mother's reaction though was priceless.

Turning shades of red and sweat beginning to bead on her forehead, I could tell my mom was about to explode.

"Are you FUCKING SHITTING ME, MARIO?!!!!!" my mom shouted. "We drove ALL THIS FUCKING WAY FOR FUCKING SUBWAY?!!!!!"

Totally bewildered, my father looked at my mother.

"I deedn't know!" he said. "It was a sandwich place. I like sandwiches!"

With that, my mom looked at both of us, my father with his puppy dog look and at me totally laughing my head off in the back seat, opened the door to the car.  She got out and slammed the door.

She stamped her foot and shook her fists in rage.

"I'm HUNGRY, DAMMIT!  and I don't want FUCKING SUBWAY! I can't believe it! I can't believe," Mom muttered to herself, "we drive all this way for FUCKING SUBWAY! I'm not eating Subway, Renny. I'm going to eat at this other place.  Come with me!"

This other place, I can't even remember the name of it, but for name's sake, I'll just call it the "Country Kitchen" which essentially had any kind of soul food home cooking you want from the South.

I looked at my dad, who felt terrible for not having noticed, but then he shrugged his shoulders.  I was kind of torn. I really didn't want to eat country home cooking, but I didn't want my dad to feel alone. "I'm going with Papi".

"Well, ees okay. I hongry..." and with that, we walked inside.

Papi and I go to the counter and my dad points to the ingredients to the lady behind the counter, "I want dis! and dis and dis".

Mom, on the other hand, was sitting by herself in a booth eating meatloaf, mashed potatoes and green beans.  The look she gave my father was one of Death.  She totally ignored him and when her waitress came by, my mom proceeded to complain about how her meatloaf was cold, how it sucked and how she was totally deceived by my dad into thinking there was a really awesome Mom and Pop sandwich place at this exit.

The waitress just stood there with her coffee and didn't know what to say, except, "Let me warm that food back up for you."

"No, I'm fine. I just wanted to let you know!" mom said. With that, the waitress filled up my mom's coffee and left.

Papi and I sat across from Mom at the booth as she glowered at my dad. Totally unperturbed by my mom's anger, he just sat there and happily ate his sandwich.

"Why you so angry, Mamita?" asked my dad, in between bites, with his mouth full.

My mom, with tight lips, and a wild look, sputtered, "Mario! I can't believe...we drove ALL. THIS.WAY for FUCKING SUBWAY. We have one in Mission!"

I couldn't help but continue to laugh at this whole debacle.

"Shut up, you!" Mom said to me, with her face still red. She shook her fist at me.

I stopped giggling at my mom.  "Is it really a big deal that it's Subway, Mom?" I asked. "It's food."

"Yeah! It's just a sandwich!" my dad said.

"You two are terrible. I can't believe this. I'm not talking to you guys anymore," my mom said.

With that, she left the remnants of cold meatloaf and mashed potatoes.  "The potatoes weren't even that good. I bet it was that powder crap they use for "mashed potatoes!"

Mom went off to the bathroom.  Papi and I sat there eating our sandwiches.

"I still don't know why she so angry. It's just a sandwich," said Papi confusedly.

"She'll get over it, Papi. Don't worry. Just eat your sandwich" I said, laying my head on his shoulder.

With that, my father finished his meal and we all continued on our Not-So-Merry way to Orlando. But before we left the Subway, my dad ended up getting two more sandwiches to go.

What can I say, my father is Sir Sandwich.

Walking through the "Gates"

My title today has nothing to do with Heaven.

Unless, that is, you enjoy eating BBQ and you've found your perfect American BBQ joint and can consider calling it Heaven.

This adage is true for me each time I go home and visit my parents in Kansas City. I believe that Kansas City is one of the best places in the U.S. to get BBQ.  I say this unabashedly. I really have enjoyed the BBQ I have gotten from holes in the wall in Kansas City more than most places I have been to or lived in.  I've had BBQ all over the South, mostly in Florida and in Georgia.  Once in Memphis and another time in Maryland.

There is a fight amongst large cities in the United States over which has the best barbecue. Of course, most Kansas Citians Carnivores, both native and expat, will tell you that Kansas City has the best BBQ in the United States.  Other cities, such as Memphis, New Orleans, Atlanta, etc. will also say THEY have the best BBQ in the world. While their styles of barbecue may be delicious, as well as their sauces, I've been to so many different places in the world that serve BBQ and the only other place that I've been to that can top KC meats is any place in Argentina.

I will tell why I think Kansas City Style BBQ is better than any you've had elsewhere. In fact, I can tell you several reasons why along with a little history.

1) History

Once upon a time, more specifically, the Time of the Wild Wild West,  in the Land of the Midwest, there was a dot upon the plains called the "City of Kansas". First, it was actually a town, but then it grew into a cute little city. This city was situated at the confluence of the Kansas and Missouri Rivers.

Most "fast" transport before the invention of the railroads was done by wagon teams or by river steamboats.  Kansas City was quite important because of the two main rivers that flowed through.  The Kansas River was important because it would branch out from the western parts of the state of Kansas into the Missouri River.  The Missouri River was also very important because it started in the Rockies and meandered it's way southeast through the Midwest all the way to Saint Louis, the "Gateway to the West", and into the Mighty Mississippi.

Let's go a little backwards here.

You ride your raft or barge with your livestock - chickens, horses, pigs, sheep, cows, etc. up the Mississippi from New Orleans, let's say.  You hit Saint Louis. You want to go out west to Kansas City.  You make a left turn from the Mississippi into the Missouri River, against all currents.  After a few days or weeks, you've finally arrived in Kansas City, Missouri.

What's funny is that Kansas City originated in Missouri, but it's named after the Kansas River in Kansas.  There is also a Kansas City, Kansas. For those not familiar with the area, they think it's all different. For municipal purposes, it is. But in reality, it's all one big city, just in different states. All with the same name.

Ok, back to the Rivers...

Kansas City is important to American History because it was the final stopping point for all trails and roads and some rivers before heading West. With the Oregon, Santa Fe and California Trails setting out from Kansas City, there was a need to transport livestock out West.  Also, with the westward expansion of the railroad, Kansas City was the also one of the final stopping grounds before getting to Santa Fe or Denver, etc.

2) Selection of Meats

Here enters The Kansas City Stockyards and Live Stock Exchange, right off of the railroad, in the West Bottoms.  The West Bottoms is an area of Kansas City located right along the state line and also right off of the confluence of both the Kansas and Missouri Rivers.  It is a low-lying area prone to floods when the rivers overflow.

This was a place where livestock owners and buyers could haggle with each other for a good deal on livestock.  Before hand, farmers who needed livestock or who wanted to sell live stock would have needed to stop the actual train or wait until the next tiny stop to see who would be interested in purchasing their livestock or otherwise buying said livestock for their own farms.

The result before the Stockyards came into existence was pretty crappy. Farmers that were expecting big bucks for that prize hog they spent years fattening up could have gotten them a paltry sum.  The KC Live Stock Exchange prevented farmers from getting gypped.  The Stock Exchange also enabled others to see what kinds of livestock was available to them for better prices for their farms.

The end result was fantastic - farmers were happy and could take their mules, horses and oxen home or otherwise fill their pockets with some nice, loose change.

Other's were able to fill their bellies...

Many restaurants in the area began to experiment with the consumption of the different types of livestock.  There was turkey. There was chicken. There was beef. There was pork. There was lamb.  I am pretty sure there was waterfowl, too.

Anything with four legs or wings or fins that walked and swam the earth has made it to the barbecue pits of Kansas City.

3) Sauce

Kansas City Style BBQ has a distinct flavor of sauce.  It is mostly a molasses-based sauce, but it also takes on the flavor of the meats.

Every single BBQ place I have been to in Kansas City uses wood to smoke their meats.  The end result is something delectable...yum...

Hickory is best.

(Sigh)

My Favorite Restaurant

The last few times I've gone home to Kansas City, I never leave home without stopping at Gates BBQ.

I usually go with my uncle and my dad, but this last time I went home, I didn't go with my uncle as I was going home to say my fond farewell of the celebration of his life.

The day after the funeral, we went with my four Vallazza sisters, Ana Maria, Lourdes, Rossana and my parents and my son and nephew to Gates.

Gates is a Kansas City staple. In its glory days, it had way more locations, but I guess not everyone likes Gates. Other popular Kansas City BBQ places are Fiorella Jack Stack and hands down, Arthur Bryant's, but my favorite place is Gates.

Jake, being a Michigander who had never been inside Kansas City limits, described his first moments walking Through the Gates...

"All senses are enticed in their own way. The sweet smoky smell of the air greets your olfactory senses. The sight of happy faces busily working behind the counter as they bombard your ears with interrogative declarations of "you want beef on bun?!""

Screaming is more like it.

I guess I never noticed because I'm a Kansas City native. I walk in to familiar faces, scents and tastes.

They literally scream at you as you walk into the door, "HI!!!! KIN I H'EP YEW?!!!" If you're not quick to order, they ask, or scream, at you, "YEW WAN BEEF ON BUN? PO'K ON BUN?! CHIKIN ON BUN?! WHATCHU WANT, HONEY?!!!!"

As you order, you pick up a tray, and go down the line as if you were in a cafeteria. Once you get your food, you then go and find a seat.

Once you sit down, your mouth is seriously watering from all the goodness on your plate. I normally order either beef or pork on bun.  It's smoked meat of your kind, with the sauce of your choice and piled high with pickles and the biggest fries of your life.  Jake described the fries as 2x4's. For the record, they're just ordinary thick cut steak fries.

Jake described his experience thus,

"After you get your food and you sit down, your olfactory senses are intensified by the plate of food you carry to your table.  In his case, he had a beef on bun.  Hickory smoked brisket, with Gates Spicy BBQ sauce, pickles, and the thickest steak fries of your life.

After you eat your meal, you need a dolly to get you out of there. You literally fall into a food coma just from all the meat and carbs that you've just consumed.

Thank the Lord my dad was driving. Otherwise I would have fallen asleep at the wheel.

I can't wait to go back home to walk through the Gates.

The Argentine Adventures : June 2015

Do you ever wonder the "what if...?"

I sure do!

Towards the end of May this year (2015) , I kept thinking, "I really want to go to Argentina this year."  I didn't have a chance to go last year as I was unemployed from teaching.  Funny to think about it, but I'm unemployed YET AGAIN from teaching.

Anyways...I digress.

I wanted to go to Argentina this year. As you've read from my other posts, "I Heart Argentina". Yep. I sure do.

The problem with this year's trip wasn't the lack of time. I MAKE time for things I want to do. Nor was it really the lack of money. Since getting an elementary teaching job last year, I had managed to save some cash and pay off some bills, which was FANTASTIC!  My problem was that since it was close to the end of the school year for me, and this school happens to run only on annual contracts, I didn't want to put a trip on my credit card without a way to pay it off JUST IN CASE I managed to NOT get a renewal on my contract.

I decided I was going to be financially savvy for once and wait.

HA!

Yeah. Right.

I looked at flights on Kayak and Skyscanner. There was one flight, round trip from Miami to Ezeiza International (Argentina's main international airport) for $590!  I can't even fly home DOMESTICALLY to Kansas City for $590!  I passed on that one because there was a lay over somewhere in Bolivia and I don't want to be by myself in Bolivia, especially when I don't really know the country.

I kept looking and looking. Several friends in Argentina kept asking, "When are you coming to visit?"  I continued to tell them, "I need to wait until I get confirmation about my teaching contract for next year".

Well, the principal took her sweet time to inform me that I was not having my contract renewed. She told me during post-planning that it wasn't being renewed. I had to pack up my classroom and make 7 trips home and back to drop off my stuff. In fact, there were only two teachers whose contracts were not renewed, including my own. I find that a personal vendetta. I don't think the principal liked me. That's okay. She had this idea that the students would be fluent in Spanish by the end of the year.

 Well...let me tell you...I've been teaching for 8 years. There is no way that over 500 students will be fluent in Spanish when they've only had 30 minutes of instruction a day (give or take about 10 minutes because they need time to settle down, or I need to travel to their classrooms since there's some ridiculous "law" that students from Kindergarten to 2nd grade are not allowed to climb the stairs in school).  30 minutes a day for one week. Some weeks were cut short due to testing or to holidays cutting into the week. Then, I wouldn't see them again for another 5 or 6 weeks, depending on the grade level. Some classes I only saw a total of 6 weeks out of the year.

I'm sorry, but I hate to break it to you - unless you are living in a foreign country where you are thrust into the environment or even if I were speaking only in Spanish the entire time in class, there is no way that someone is going to learn how to speak Spanish with such unrealistic time allowances and constraints.  Bitch, please...Whatever...ONWARD to bigger and better things, baby!

So I bought my ticket anyways.

I'm headstrong and very impractical at times. Especially when it has to do with travel. If I have an opportunity to travel and I haven't met my credit limit, I buy myself a ticket!

I was set to travel June 14-June 29th.

After booking my airfare, which turned out to be $1054 US, including tax, I realized, I should have booked it a day later and returned a day later because it would be an actual pay day the 15th and the 30th. On top of that, I bought the ticket pretty much last minute because I was so antsy about going.

I asked my cousin if I could park my car at her apartment in Miami for two weeks and she said absolutely!

My trip turned out to be a very interesting mix of events, so to say.

I left Jacksonville for Miami on Friday afternoon. Ran a series of errands. Met with a few people. On the way there, I was so excited because I was going to listen to my music in my car.  Stopped off at Starbucks. Ordered a Venti Soy Chai at 8:30 p.m. and drank the entire thing in less than an hour. Got to Miami later than I expected, at around 10 p.m..

My cars speakers sounded as if there were marbles rolling around in them.  They also had that staticky quality about them. Not cool.

Ana told me, 'Park in the visitors spot when you get here".  I arrived and there were none available. So I parked in the closest available spot. I even had a Resident Raccoon greet me upon my arrival!  He was foraging for food in the dumpsters.

I told Ana what I had done and she said, "Well, I've never seen them tow anyone, but you should be fine."

We stayed up late, talked all night and went to sleep at around 2 a.m..

I slept for about an hour or two. I was paranoid that someone might see the suitcases hanging out in my back seat, break my windows and want to take them!  I kept waking up, looking out the window. Nothing appeared amiss. I saw the Renmobile, just hanging out expectantly waiting for our next adventure. I went back to bed, stalked some people on Facebook. Tried to sleep. Kept tossing and turning. Couldn't sleep.

Finally, 7 a.m. rolls around. I decided that I needed to take a shower and get my travel clothes ready. I also saw a visitors spot open and decided I was going to park my car in that spot.

I grabbed my keys, went outside, down the apartment stairs, out to my car and lo and behold...this is what I was greeted with...

Seriously?!  Are you seriously kidding me right now?

There was a tag on my window that said prompt removal of the boot would occur when I called and gave the company $89 either in cash or credit. Begrudgingly, I run back up to my cousin's apartment, grab my phone, go back outside, take a picture and call the number. I may have woke up the individual on the other side of the phone line.

"Hello?" That groggy voice that people make when they first arise from slumber.

"Yeah, hi. Good morning. I just came out to my car and I see this sticker on my window and a boot on my tire. I'm going out of the country today and I need to move my car. Can someone please help me remove this?" I asked.

"That will be $89 including tax," said the male voice on the other line. "I'll be there in 10 minutes."

"Is there any way we can reduce the price?  I just lost my job this week and money is kind of tight," I asked.  I mean, I also had dollars in cash that I needed to exchange on my way to Argentina so that I'd have some money to spend when I got there, like for food and stuff.

"Yeah..." said the man reluctantly. "I'll see what I can do. I might be able to drop it."

The man arrived within five minutes and took the boot off the car.

"That'll be $89."

Um...I was told that it could be less. I explained my sob story again to the dude.  He was willing to drop it to $59.  Thirty dollars isn't a bad discount. At least I got to save some money. I'm willing to admit the fact that I parked in a wrong spot. I'm okay with paying for my transgressions.

I told him that I had a credit card and he shook his head. "I forgot my credit card reader".

I rolled my eyes and said that I would have to go back and get the little cash I had left inside. I raced up the stairs again, opened the door, stomped around cursing my luck, found the cash and then raced outside again.

I handed the man sixty bucks and told him to keep the change.  He went on his merry way and I quickly moved my car to a visitors spot before another boot was immediately slapped on my car.

All of this occurred before 7:30 in the morning.   As you see above, I did put it on social media.

Hee hee.

By this time, with all the noise I was making cursing out loud and slamming doors, Ana was already awake.

"Renny...what happened?" She asked as she rubbed her eyes open.

I told her what had happened

"Ay Dios mio!" She exclaimed. I had no idea they would do that, she said.

Let's go ahead and get going to my job, she said.

We take showers, get dressed, and get going to her job, which is in downtown Miami, neak Brickell.  On the way there, we stop off at this Cuban café of sorts, where they have pastelitos and cortaditos.  For those of you who don't know, cortaditos are small little cups of Cuban coffee.  They're more like espresso, but with NOS infused in them.  You want energy?  You drink a cortadito.

Just right for Barbie!

Most Cubans, about 98% of them, will drink cortaditos with milk and sugar. I love coffee and I especially love drinking "café con leche".  However, in the last few years, I have developed a serious intestinal aversion to milk. I cannot consume milk, cream or ice cream without having major intestinal issues, a.k.a GAS. Though I can eat cheese without a problem, for some strange reason. Hmmm...I don't know. Weird

Ana and I each get a cortadito and I totally forgot to tell them to not put milk in it. I eat my pastelito and drink my NOS coffee and immediately, I feel like I am flying into outer space.

Actually, flying into outer space is a total lie, but I sure felt like it the way my pulse was raging.

...to be continued...see part two coming soon!