Sip and Surprises: Don’t Judge a Drink by Its Bottle -Silver Medal, National 2024

“Konnichiwa! Welcome to 7-Eleven.” I was immediately greeted by the cordial cashier when I dashed into the convenient store for air conditioning. The refreshing gusts of cool air swept in, offering a soothing escape from the stifling heat and humidity.  It was the summer of 2014. I was only 8 years old and was looking forward to nothing else but my first trip to Tokyo.

Within the convenient store, the items were neatly lined up on the shelves in rows, like a buffet waiting to be selected. To my right was the refrigerated section, the refreshing oasis trove, offering a wide range of thirst-quenching drinks. I quickly scanned through every drink that was displayed on the shelf—bottled water, sports drinks, green tea, chilled coffees… the canned juice standing upright in the first row drew my gaze. It was a black and elegant aluminum can that is cool to the touch; its label glistening with a fresh slice of peach with delicate splashes, making it irresistible. Lifting my heels off the floor, I stretched myself to fetch for it. Mission accomplished. I found my mom standing in the back of the orderly line.

“YAMANASHI PEACH from Japanese Farm,” she read the captivating words under the picture. “Are you sure this is what you want?”

“YAAAAAS!!!” I handed over the can.

After a while, our turn at the checkout finally arrived. The cashier greeted us with a brief smile and swiftly scanned the barcodes. However, as he picked up my drink, a moment of hesitancy lingered. He paused, casting us a puzzling look and gestured in an attempt to communicate, perhaps inquiring about a membership. In the midst of this polite yet confusing exchange between us, albeit mostly lost in the maze of foreign languages, I returned the gesture with a reassuring smile, hoping to get our message across—we’re good.

“That would be 1,000 Yen," the cashier finally pointed towards the screen as my mom reached for her pouch and nodded in appreciation.

Dragging our feet to the sliding glass auto doors of the convenient store, we were again embraced by the stifling heat. The relentless sun made our travels challenging, leading us to retreat to the Tokyo Metro Station for our trip back to the hotel. While my father went to the ticket machine to purchase our tickets, I settled myself into the seating area within the bustling station. 

Pssst! I popped the soda can, letting the sizzle and the sweet and fresh scent of peaches escape. The air was instantly filled with the sweet and invigorating scent of fresh peaches. I could not wait and took a generous sip, hoping to relish the refreshing burst of flavor that would grace my senses.

“Ewww…” The first sip did not go well. It was like a mixture of vinegar and rotten eggs. Undeterred, I took another sip only to be met with a disappointment—It was not the fresh taste of ripe peaches that I was expecting. 

“They do have quite a unique taste for peaches,” I muttered to myself, dismissing my expectations. Frowning, I tried to pass the drink to my brother, but he rejected my generous offer. 

“Just finish it yourself." He was not into the drink and was too busy to get a pentakill in the virtual battlefield of PUBG.

Darn it. I guess before I get my sales-pitch right, I would have to drink all of it. With a deep breath, I steeled myself for another round of this peculiar experience. 

Gulp. Gulp. Gulp. 

Eyes clenched. 

I swallowed my drink hastily, hoping to get over with the ordeal. As the drink tingled down my throat, I also felt the heat spreading and building within my chest. I didn’t know summer in Tokyo could be so irritating and so unbearable.

As the gentle hum grew into a resonant melody, our awaited train finally pulled into the station. Like a rehearsed dance, we took a graceful step back allowing space for embarking passengers. Following the well-coordinated troupe, we entered the Tokyo metro. It was eight in the morning, and the train was filled with heavy-eyed commuters. Swaying to the rhythmic chug of the tracks, I probed my way through the crowd, starting what felt like a moonwalk towards the perceived center of the coach–my chosen stage.  In this surreal moment, the boundaries between reality and my dreams seamlessly blurred into one. 

“Billie Jean is not my lover…” the lyrics tumbled out my lips as I titled my head to invite my dad to join in; afterall, it is his favorite song. In those fleeting moments, the train car transformed into my personal stag for my mini concert.

“WH-AIR are we heading again?” I blurted out the words as I tried to fight against my tipsy mind. With every tilt of my head, the world around me swayed in tandem. The once sleepy commuters all turned and cast a wide-eyed stare, wondering what had happened to this little girl. 

I recognized that familiar look, reminiscent of the cashier's expression. The passengers, with their brows furrowed, were showing the exact same look of puzzlement. Perhaps they were trying to get an autograph from me, the thought emerged in my tipsy mind.

“How’s your day?” I beamed, trying to strike up conversations with anyone whose gaze I met. 

“Hey, you’re excited,” my dad observed, promptly pulling me down to my seat and as if trying to tether a hot air balloon ready to ascend. 

“I said don't mind, but what do you mean, I am the one who will dance on the floor in the round?” I sang the lyrics to my dad, eagerly inviting him to join my coupe. Meanwhile, my brother, unfazed, remained steadfast on his mission.

 I found everything on the train amusing—the perplexed expressions of fellow passengers, their raised eyebrows, and their squinted eyes; the stiff smile of my parents, nervously adjusting their clothing; and my brother’s everlasting indifference. 

“Turn up the volume!” With excitement coursing through my veins, my arms flailed and my legs seemed to take on a life of their own, as if I were performing on a concert stage. The passengers' initial bewildered look turned into disbelief and eventually into bemusement. Some shook their heads while a few muffled giggles escaped, and others discreetly looked away, trying to compose themselves with a straight face. 

“Ding-dong. We are approaching Ginza Station.” My family hastily shoved me off the train, and I stumbled out clutching my empty can. The echoes of my spontaneous concert still lingered within the train as the doors closed behind me. My mom, noticing my blushing face and an unusual odor enveloping me, beckoned me over. 

“Wait…,” my mom’s sense was alerted by the unusual scent beneath the sweet and fruity note. “Give it to me.” She tried to extract any possible trace of the drink from the can. “This couldn't be…” 

Suddenly, all the nonsense behavior of me—the singing, dancing, and putting on a concert— on the train had an explanation. 

“It’s ALCOHOL!” She turned and gazed at me, her jaws almost dropping. “OH NOO, you could be jailed for drinking underage!” 

My brother finally looked up from his phone. I could see a trace of laughter, lurking within his glistening eyes. It’s his go-to move whenever he is about to mock me.

“She says I am the one.” I belted out the lyrics, my eyes darting swiftly from side to side—unsure if I was still riding the concert hype or strategically avoiding eye contact with my mom. 

For the rest of the day, the specifics of what transpired became a hazy blur. I was Diana from Anne of the Green Gables, tipsy from the infamous, bright, red Raspberry Cordial. Waking up the next morning, brimming with anticipation for my second day in Tokyo, reality hit me like a ton of bricks. Sore legs and a hoarse voice clung to me like a post-concert aftermath. 

“CHU-HI,” an abbreviation for Shochu-Highball, meaning cocktail in Japanese; it is a term that always comes to me with a splitting headache to this day.