Brent Hopkins For more information on
Hopkins’ drinking problem, e-mail him at [email protected]
There’s a nasty paradox in traveling. On one hand,
it’s really fun and rewarding. You learn about new cultures,
expand your realm of thought and gain exciting anecdotes to tell
your friends. Tragically, on the other hand, it’s like,
really expensive. I went to England a couple years ago, and I
almost had to sell my organs to pay off my credit card bill just to
get there. Travel is dreadfully taxing on a college student’s
rather limited budget.
Unfortunately for me, entertainment journalism doesn’t
really rake in the big bucks, either. As much as I’d like to
go to Europe, or Asia, or just about anywhere North of the 101,
unless I get a job in a far more lucrative field, I’m going
to be taking vacations in far away locales like Culver City and Mar
Vista. Not that those aren’t great places and all, but
I’d like to experience something just a little bit different.
Fear not, dear readers, I have a plan. To step outside the confines
of the West side of Los Angeles, I’m going to drink my way
across the world.
I’m sure that this assertion has been made countless times
at every bar in town just about every night. I don’t mean it
quite the same way that those alcoholic wannabe world travelers do,
however. My around the world in 80 drinks won’t be spent
getting drunk, but rather sampling the truly unusual beverages that
nations export to us.
Don’t let my snide, jaded tone fool you. Though most
people assume that I’m trying to be the next Hunter S.
Thompson with this whole rock journalism thing, I’m a pretty
boring person. I don’t know why I get lumped in with the
substance abusers that have made this line of work famous ““
maybe it’s because I wear a hat.
Whatever the case, I don’t dig the whole getting drunk
deal. Rather, I indulge my drinking curiosity by shelling out
exorbitant sums of money for imported soda. An expensive vice, I
know, but a satisfying one, nonetheless.
Yeah, sure, I know that in a lot of ways this is a really
stupid, elitist hobby. I won’t make the moronic statement
that food from overseas is somehow superior to what we have here,
though. Coke and Sprite are still fine with me. I don’t stoop
to the level of doing all my shopping at Bristol Farms, just
because their beverage aisle is a little more eclectic than my
local Vons. Then again, my local Vons doesn’t really sell
anything except dented cans of dusty Pepsi and Tab that probably
date back to the “˜80s.
Speaking of the “˜80s, when I was growing up, I used to
swear by Diet Coke. Hardly a manly refreshment, I know, but hey, it
was what my parents had in the house. Whenever I ordered soda, it
was always the ol’ DC, just for the taste of it. I shrugged
off all those rumors about it causing fertility problems and stuff,
because when you’re 14, that really doesn’t seem too
scary. No trip to McDonalds was complete without a cup of the
beverage of choice for middle-aged women and me. It was pretty much
the be-all and end-all of sodas, as far as I was concerned.
When I was a little older, however, I realized that there was a
bit more to life than aspartame. My aunt introduced me to the wild
world of foreign sodas by bringing back a can of Orangina from a
trip to France. Man, I was hooked in an instant. The subtle
sweetness, the tang of the tangerine, the little hints of pulp
““ it was like Dom Perignon to a 15-year-old.
At the time, Orangina was a bit harder to come by than it is
now. You had to go to really snobby stores, rather than any local
coffeehouse, and it still cost a lot of money. This introduced me
to the first problem of liking weird drinks ““ you only get
“˜em once in awhile, and you’ve got to be willing to
fork over a considerable sum. Still, it’s worth it as an
occasional habit.
This was just the tip of the iceberg, however. Orangina proved
to be a dangerous gateway drug for me, because there was no turning
back after that. Soon I was sampling weird, bitter Italian sodas
that bore little resemblance to their teeth-tingling American
cousins. I’ve never been to Italy, but at least I have a
vague idea of what they like to drink with their meals. Think of it
as extremely economical cultural research.
There are indeed some down sides to beverage hunting. For
example, when I took that damningly pricey trip to England, I
became a big fan of the barley water. It’s kind of like
really sweet, really strong orange juice, and I found it quite
delicious. I mean, man, I was slugging down shot glasses of it like
there was no tomorrow, and all my traveling companions found this
to be unspeakably disgusting. Unbeknownst to me, you were supposed
to mix it with carbonated water, making a sort of soda drink. No
wonder it always made my heart race at insane rates.
There was also a memorable incident with the Indian sugar cane
juice that I drank. At the time, I wondered why it was so
nauseatingly sweet. Once I’d polished it off, my friends
pointed out that it was quite far past its expiration date and had
fermented. Oops. I shouldn’t even begin to go into my
harrowing experience with “yogurt-flavored soda” at a
local Greek restaurant. Though I drank the entire bottle, mostly
just to say that I had, but also to recoup my $1.95 investment, it
was only marginally better than sipping pool water.
By and large, these are exceptions to the rule. My most recent
awesome adventures in drink exploration were both pleasant, though
radically diverse. The first involved a trip to Torrance, where I
forked over $21 for a case of Japanese UCC coffee. Good lord! I
think I’ve found ambrosia in a 337-milliliter can. It’s
heavily sweetened, has a taste vaguely reminiscent of stale
cigarette smoke and will probably kill me in no time. But
it’s so delicious I keep drinkin’ away. Screw that
ice-blended mocha nonsense, I’m sticking with UCC.
The second purchase involved less money, but far more personal
risk. Against my better judgment, I ventured into the Valencia
Wal-Mart and bought a $0.58 2 liter bottle of Dr Thunder soda.
Once I got that soda home, served in a frosty mug with copious
amounts of ice, believe me, it was worth it. A near-perfect rip-off
of Dr Pepper, my cleverly named drink made a delicious companion to
an evening of reading. It was like a little piece of the heartland
(or wherever these “Dr” drinks are supposed to be from)
delivered to me in liquid form.
If I were a smart, dedicated person, I’d actually travel
more to learn about these places. But seeing as how those
“Who Wants to Be a Millionaire” jerks never called me
back, I guess I’ll have to rely on travel via aluminum
can.
Hey, if I’m going to rot my teeth, I might as well do it
in style.