Vacation horror stories: Part 1

In keeping with the theme of vacations, which admittedly you wouldn't know was a theme unless you read my blog regularly, which is unlikely, or you start at the bottom of the page, which makes you an idiot since no one starts reading at the bottom of the page... But in keeping with the theme of vacations, here is a piece I wrote a while back about a particularly memorable vacation I took. Enjoy.

I'm fortunate enough to have a wealthy godmother who likes to travel. When I was in 8th grade, she took me for a weeklong trip to the Galapagos. Everything went swimmingly, and it's by far the best trip I've ever taken in my life. I highly recommend everyone go if they ever get an opportunity.

So the very last night of the trip, we ran out of bottled water. Well, that was no problem, we had some Sprite, so things were fine. We had heard the horror stories about drinking the water, and we knew that wasn't something we wanted to experience. I'm getting ready for bed, ready for the 20 hours of traveling the next day would hold.

When you are a child, you live a life of routine. My routine prior to going to bed was to brush my teeth. This routine was reinforced by dentists who would scare the shit out of me by showing me pictures of kids who didn't brush and floss every day; their teeth would be rotted out, black and grimy, sticking out of their gums in awkward directions, or simply gone from their mouth altogether. Consequently, I made sure I brushed every damn day. But all we had was Sprite... I can't brush my teeth with soda, can I? Nah, can't be, the dentist always tells me to avoid soda too. So, I dribble two drops of water out of the faucet, put that on my toothbrush with plenty of toothpaste, brush, spit (no rinsing of course), done. I made sure I hadn't swallowed any liquid; I was in the clear.

It took less than 15 minutes to hit me. All of a sudden, my large intestine and small intestine seemed like they were attempting to swap places. A horrible gurgling noise started in my stomach, matched in tone and horror by a trembling warble allegedly coming from my mouth (though no human could have produced these sounds, of that I am most sure). My godmother gave me some unmarked pills to take, and like any 13 year old staring death in the face, I complied. All I had to drink was Sprite, but you can take a pill with soda... I mean, OK, I did just brush my teeth, but what's the dentist going to say if I die? "Well, at least he took good care of his teeth." No, I'll take the pills with soda, that will be fine.

Now, I don't know what the pills were. All I know is that they mixed with Sprite like baking soda and vinegar. Suddenly, where before there had been cramping and gurgling, now there was a full-fledged volcano brewing in my innards. But I was young and stupid, and I absolutely refused to vomit. Every bone in my body is yelling, "Just puke you shithead and this will all go away!" but I refused to believe it (what do bones know anyway). I sat in bed all night, clutching my knees to my chest, shivering and sweating, sure that I was destined to die in this roach infested third world hellhole.

The next day, we went to the airport. Normally, we would have sought out an emergency room, but when you are greeted into a country by men holding AK47s, you don't want to overstay your visa. We boarded the plane, and I embarked on the longest voyage of my life. My godmother and I parted ways in Miami, as she was bound for South Carolina and I was headed to Oregon. I spent the next 12 hours on planes and in terminals clutching my knees to my chest, hoping that my insides would rearrange themselves into a normal configuration at some point so that I would be able to straighten up without fear of fracturing vertebrae.

The best part of this experience was that as a young child traveling alone (and clearly in need of medical aid or a priest), I got to board the plane first. It was fun watching every single person get on the plane, take one look at me, then quickly doublecheck their ticket to make sure they weren't sharing a row with Pukey McDiarrhea (not that I was having either of these symptoms on the plane mind you, but I'm sure I looked like a leper who had just been injected with weaponized ebola). There's nothing more satisfying than someone saying a hail Mary before they take their seat beside you. But the small joy that this would make an excellent story for parties was quickly surpassed by the overwhelming agony that only someone suffering from La Turista in a tin can in turbulence at 30,000 feet can truly appreciate.

I eventually made it home, and spent the next 14 hours safely on a toilet, emptying myself of the evil that had purged my fragile body while my mom called around to see where we could find replacement organs for the ones I had just forcefully ejected from my torso. All's well that ends well, and to that end I survived and had a hell of a time in the Galapagos. But I'd sooner let every tooth rot out of my head than brush my teeth with Ecuadorian tapwater again.