Vacation Horror Story
A few years back, while living in Sarasota, Florida, I journeyed to one of the city’s sister (twin) cities, Dunfermline, Scotland. A trade show in London followed a couple of days later and I had scheduled a day of vacation time in between to explore London.
During my brief visit to Scotland, I gave a presentation about Sarasota to Dunfermline’s government officials, travel agents and members of the media. Afterwards, I hosted a lunch of finger sandwiches and other tasty delectables. Following lunch, a train took me to Edinburgh where I would spend the night and catch a flight to London the next day.
Despite November’s bone-chilling wind, I wandered down Edinburgh’s cobbled streets and took in its historic architecture. Having had fish and chips the night prior, I opted for dinner at a little Thai restaurant around the corner from my hotel.
Exactly one hour from completing my Thai meal of coconut curry seafood; rumbling erupted in my stomach. Luckily, I was already in the hotel room and had the privacy of my own bathroom. After a 15-minute visit to the loo, it was 9 o’clock and decided to call it a night. Snuggling into the bed, pulling the covers around me, all was well. Until an hour later.
Edinburgh-Thai did not sit well. I was summonsed to the bathroom and began worshiping the porcelain god. On my knees with arms wrapped around the bowl, first out were pieces of little squid tentacles. Next were the mussels then chunks of shrimp. Vegetables and rice were sprinkled into the purge along with fluid. Lots of fluid. Coughing and spitting, my eyes watered. The rancid, sour stench of semi-digested food was overwhelming and was all I could smell.
Weak, I rested my chin on the cool rim of the toilet. After a few minutes, I crawled to the sink and pulled myself up. Under the faucet I soaked a hand towel, wrung it damp and cleaned up my face. The coolness was refreshing.
There was a brief moment of relief. Very brief.
Nature called again. Hunched over the toilet, my body purged more poison. A pattern of coughing, spitting, gagging and heaving, followed by rest, continued for two more hours. My body quivered and ached. I wondered, “How can there be anything left? This is what it must feel like to be dying.”
Despite being hard, the stone-cold, mini-tiled floor was extremely comforting. Crawling out of the bathroom on hands and knees, I grabbed a pillow off the bed and dragged it back in. My makeshift bed was a bath towel and pillow, head closest to the toilet.
It was the longest night of my life. Minutes here and there were spent sleeping while most were spent bent over the toilet.
My mind fluttered with the horrible thought of, “What if it wasn’t the Thai food? What if it was today’s luncheon? What if today’s guests are sitting on their bathroom floors, vomiting?” I could not bare to think of it.
When morning came, I found the strength to shower and walk to the nearest chemist (pharmacy). The stench of vomit lingered. My voice was hoarse from coughing all night. But the crisp, morning air was a shot of rejuvenation. I wanted ginger ale, Gatorade and Pepto-Bismol. Found the Pepto and a rehydrating sports drink, but the closest thing to ginger ale was a fizzy, apple drink. It sufficed.
Still feeling queasy and unsure if there was anything left in my body to expel, I still needed to board the plane to London. Being a victim of the 1980s British music invasion, visiting London had been a dream. Missing the flight was not an option.
Checking into the Edinburgh airport, I begged the British Airways agent to help me out. “Please ma’am. I spent all night throwing up and I am still feeling queasy. Could I have a seat closest to the bathroom?”
She was sympathetic and obliged. To my advantage, it wasn’t a full flight and had an entire row to myself, next to the bathroom. As soon as I buckled up, my body cooperated and slept through the brief trip.
Weak and a bit nauseous, my hotel was an hour away and sleep beckoned me. My pre-arranged shared van service drove to central London, dropping off passengers here and there. My body braced and stomach turned with each bump and twist in the road. My head ached. The driver wanted to talk and my body wanted to puke. But being polite, I minimally chatted with him, keeping focused on the horizon out the window.
This was my third business trip to London and had finally planned a vacation day to connect with the city. Unfortunately, upon reaching the hotel, it was necessary for me to spend quality time with the new porcelain god.
Before spending the next 16 hours in bed, I hesitantly called my contact in Edinburgh to check if anyone else was sick. An international incident had been avoided and no one else was ill.
The next day, I had regained my strength and was able to participate in the trade show. But sadly, London would have to wait another day for me to play tourist.
