Non-alcoholic Me
by Elen P. Farkas
"The piano has been drinking/not me…"
--Tom Waits
ALCOHOL is not my best friend. And this time of merriment, I admit,
I'm always the loser. I was 8 years old the first time I tasted beer.
I remember the night my father poured a small portion of San Miguel
Beer in his glass; beside it was a plate of peanuts as his pulutan.
The color in the glass was inviting. Its bubbles and foam readily
caught my eye. The sound it created when he put the liquid into the
crystal-clear former Nescafé glass was intriguing. And for
a child, it was enticing. I wondered what its taste was compared to
Coke, which my mother never bought. Hi-C or Cetrin was our standard
drink. Coke and Pepsi were both no-nos.
As my father gulped the entire yellowish content of his glass, he
glanced at me and knew I was curious. "You want to try?"
he asked. "Can I?" My eyes were sparkling. "Of course!"
Father was smiling from ear to ear and he knew what would happen.
It only lasted for a second until I let the floor taste it too. The
bitter liquid didn't even warm my mouth. "What was that?"
I demanded an answer. Immediately, I grabbed a handful of peanuts
to vanish the unsavoury taste. Since then I never liked the taste
of beer. After that, I promised myself I would never, ever, touch
it again. And I would avoid it as best as I could.
I was clean for 16 years. My college friends were as sober as me.
No one experimented. No one tried. There were vague memories in between,
during high school, but that was committed by my pimpled-faced male
classmates. Their reported flirtation with alcohol and drugs were
the result of adolescent fears, hormonal changes and curiosity. And
it increased my disgust for spirits. The smell that emanated from
their small bodies, not yet fully men, turned me off. My parents were
proud of their eldest daughter. I became a role model to my younger
sister.
But fate started to make fun of me. The second firm I joined in was
the prime example of hedonistic but reserved individuals. The job
required us to be calm in times of pressure. I wouldn't say it was
a curse because the company made a great impact on me as a person,
a member of the working class and a Filipino. I met interesting people
for whom smoking and spirits were best buddies. Some of them became
my friends, others were just plain acquaintances.
On my 24th birthday, I was destined to taste Tequila and Margarita.
It worried my mother, who was not used to seeing me drunk coming home
from work. I couldn't forget her first question. "Do you have
a problem?" My mother was roused from sleep by my coming in and
rushing to the sink. I reeked of Tequila. Plus the evidence of cigarette
smoke that never left my clothes. She knew I was inside a smoky club.
I shook my head, still feeling sick. I was still bent over the sink;
in front of me were the morsels of food I had eaten while drinking
the spirit. And then I was kind of relieved. But it was not enough.
I sat on a sofa and felt as if I were floating. This time it was my
father who emerged from the room.
Even though I didn't take a peek, I already knew what his face looked
like. "Kung kailan ka tumanda saka ka pa naging ganyan."
I didn't know what to say; it was partly due to the fact that I was
slightly drunk. And besides, there was no point of arguing with him.
I quickly went to my room and prepared to sleep. But sleep didn't
come easily. I had to wait until I saw the signs of daylight. When
I woke up, I felt my head was heavy and there were blisters all over
my body. They were itchy. I got worried. But I only drank two-and-a-half
jiggers of Mexican cactus (agave), a.k.a., Tequila. Again, I told
myself I would never drink it again. But promises were meant to be
broken. I still toiled around. There were more misses than hits. I
finally decided that alcohol was really not meant for me.
I started to decline my friends' offers to hang out. I became a party
pooper, ordering iced tea instead of San Miguel Light (for my cholesterol-worrying
friends) or the mean original one. I could say I was a social smoker,
too. The long-time smokers among my friends could detect I never inhaled
the smoke down to my lungs. I started to wean myself from my circle
of friends. Especially when I knew they would spend their off-hours
going to a club. I began to plead excuses, real and imagined. They
didn't believe me after that. Even if I told them the smell of alcohol
completely sickened me. Even if I showed them my blisters. "Ever
heard of how to increase your alcohol tolerance?" One of them
asked me. I didn't bother to search for it because I didn't have any
intention to increase it. I was better off with my current situation.
It was not until I met my Austrian husband and lived with him. Austria
is virtually a beer and wine country. Every province has its own Brauerei
(brewery) and Weingut (vineyard), private or otherwise. More often
than not, one can spot numerous beer and wine factories in just one
place. The locals can down three to five liters of beer and one-and-a-half
liters of wine like I down one-liter of Coke in just one sitting.
I always associate the need for alcohol to the weather just to give
justice that alcohol drinking is as natural as breathing in Vienna.
A Schnaps (brandy) here, or a Sturm (fermented grape juice, but not
yet wine) there. Or beer and wine all-year round don't hurt either.
"If ever you would in an island, what are the things you would
bring?" It was a mental quiz posed by my professor in college.
One of the things included on his enumerated what-to-bring list was
a bottle of Vodka. I chose a plastic, wood and I don't know what else
but never a Vodka. It's only in the end that my professor explained
that Vodka is often used to keep the body immune from the cold temperature.
I laughed at his suggestion. But my husband told me how the Russians
are the complete winners when it comes to drinking Vodka. The Irish
compete with the Austrians, and the English and Australians are catching
up when it comes to beer-drinking contests.
Whenever my husband's friends invite us for a get-together, I always
see everybody drinking beer. As for me you can find me happily drinking
my apple juice. Everybody asks, "Don't you think Apfelsaft is
boring already?" and everybody wonders, "You never hang
out in the Philippines?" And each time they ask me these questions
I just say, "It's just not my thing. I feel safe in my carbonated
apple juice." Then, everybody shuts up. That sort of separates
me from their world. Sometimes I get worried if I give them a negative
impression. But what can I do? Anyway, my husband assured me that
he accepts me for what I am and that I don't have to prove anything
to anyone. And as always, that calms my ebbing self-esteem. I don't
need a spirit to whisk me away; I only need to be myself. And, I believe,
that's intoxicating enough.
____________________________
Originally published Dec. 29, 2001 at Philippine Daily Inquirer.
Republished with permission from the author.
About the author: Elen P. Farkas, 28, used to work as an editorial assistant in a publishing
company and now lives with her husband in Vienna, Austria.
