Family Time: The Meeting Place (aka My Parents Room)

My parents were the masterminds behind this whole trip. And they were the…middle generation. You know, the responsibilities of the middle generation? To take care of the older and to make sure the younger doesn’t get in trouble? Though, to be fair to myself, I don’t do much to get in trouble. Except take pictures of things when I’m not supposed to.

So on top of schlepping everyone everywhere, they were also in charge of feeding us. Which, to four Asian grandparents, just means “We don’t want anything that doesn’t sit right”, which means “We want Chinese food’. Which means, when you’re on the go so much in a country that doesn’t really have that many Chinese places, lots and lots and lots of ramen.

And this, actually, which my mom so ingeniously placed among her many cosmetics. Hah.

A couple days into the Penzance stop, we hit up a local supermarket. Because I have a thing for supermarkets, and that’s not even a joke. I like them. They’re comfortable. No matter where you are, there’s always something predictable about supermarkets. And while I understand that there are plenty of places that are equally as predictable, such as port-a-potties or maybe gas stations, supermarkets are just…nicer.

It’s just me. I’m used to it.

Anyway, we were in a supermarket and my dad sees the beers and decides that as a man he wants to try out some of the local beers. Just kidding about the as a man part. I’m rather certain he had no masculinity issues when he bought them, but I like to make my characters sound like they have problems. More depth, you know?

I don’t know.

So he got a couple beers and this was one of them:

And while we were opening it one night at another ramen dinner, I had the brilliant idea to open my mouth and say, “I want to try some!”

Disclaimer to any legal representatives of any future companies that I may want to work for: First of all, please hire me. I’ll do a good job. Secondly, I am as of this writing legally allowed to drink in the UK. So don’t reject my resume because of it or send me to jail or anything. Although I’m not sure you can. It is only a blog after all. And you really have no idea who I am.

But besides the point.

I wanted to try some. But being as it was…well…beer, it smelled like feet. Like icky feet. I just really don’t like the taste of beer. So my mom had the brilliant (not even sarcastic for once) idea of pouring some out onto a spoon and feeding it to me like cough medicine (which, by the way, has to be the work of the devil. I mean, it’s one thing to have to swallow icky gooey grossness that slides all around your mouth before you get it to go down your throat, but on top of that, you have to make it taste like artificial fruit? Why??).

It was surprisingly good! I mean, granted, it had the alcohol content of like, an average beer (according to my dad), but I couldn’t taste it much. It tasted like ginger ale…whoa. Ginger. Ale. Ginger. Beer. “Crabbies Original Alcoholic GINGER BEER”.


I’m sorry, it’s like 5 in the morning and my brain just isn’t working as quickly as it—

Actually. Never mind, go ahead and laugh at me because I didn’t catch it weeks ago when I had this teacup full (sort of) of beer, and it certainly wasn’t 5AM then.

Cheers for drinking ginger ale out of a teacup and saucer?

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