Spain Tales: Gastro

My name is Heather and I´m Celiac. (Allergic to gluten.) I´m also traveling through Spain, so while I can still eat the olive oil, I can't dip my bun into it.

Since February, I´ve been trying my darndest not to eat anything with the devil grain in it, and let me tell you, it´s been a bitch. Try traveling without eating a baguette; it ain´t easy.

I had a few accidental ingestions in England, where people are suckled on carbs and never quite get off the breaded nipple (usually served up in a pint glass), and something suspect entered my ecosystem in Portugal, giving me a good case of traveler´s tummy that has been rooming with me ever since. (Good thing I have a private room in the youth hostel, where we can be alone.)

Well, today I did something I shouldn´t have - I knowingly ate a piece of gooey, breaded cheesey goodness. I don´t know what they´re called, but they´re one of my favorite tapas, and how was I to know they´d be served with my good-little-celiac roasted chicken and salad?

I looked left, I looked right. All around me people were smoking and drinking and eating ice cream and paella, washing down their coffees with a shot of something strong. One man playing slot machines absentmindedly threw his cigarette butt under my table, and the waiter simply came after it with a broom and offered the man an ashtray. A man at the bar had a full-on mullet, and his wife looked like Twisted Sister´s brother.

In other words, things were getting a little crazy, and I´d had a vino tinto (red) served up cold in a tall lemonade glass. I´m not sure what came over me, but it did.