The large droplets beat down in a steady rhythm against the thin black cloth of my umbrella, collect briefly at the back edge and drip onto my full pack. I´m trying to navigate the web of convoluted streets entwined through downtown Lisbon, Portugal in an effort to rendezvous with Michelle at her hotel. Walking seemed like a reasonable choice as I exited the train station given the surplus of time and the map´s illusion of proximity; now, as I finished pacing out the second mile, my ailing feet assure me I have chosen poorly.

I come across a supermarket and duck inside in hopes of quenching my mounting thirst. Arriving at the juice aisle and, not knowing the Portuguese translation, I try to find a carton of orange juice based solely on the pictures printed on the smattering of mixed juice offerings. After looking long and hard, I finally spy a lone glass bottle that contains only pictures of oranges. I pick it up and give it a quick shake, noting that the air bubble trapped inside takes its time in getting to the top of the bottle. Hmm, this juice seems a little thick, must be the full pulp variety.

Back on the street, I undo the bottle´s cap and, anticipating its contained refreshment, take a big sip. Instead of refreshment, a gooey, orange-flavored blob fills my mouth and I realize I have mistakenly purchased orange juice concentrate. Oh well, at least it wasn´t orange-flavored mayonnaise.