Yesterday I spent the day vomiting my way across England.
I knew I wasn’t feeling well when we woke up and checked out of the hotel, but it wasn’t until we were about ten minutes from our first stop that I realized the full magnitude of the situation. It was at that point, watching traffic build up in front of us, that I knew I was going to vomit. I know myself pretty well, so I knew there was at least a chance I’d make it to our stop, but the countdown had definitely started.
Sure enough, as soon as we pulled into the parking lot (full of children and nice old ladies) my time ran out. Deciding against puking in front of an audience, I ran to the public toilet and immediately almost killed myself. Apparently they had hosed down the floors, so when I hit it at a full run I went sliding into a wall. Then I slid into a stall–with a broken toilet! Slid into another stall and, trying not to fall down and hit my head, promptly vomited loudly and longly. Ah sweet relief!
After that I felt a bit better, as one does. So we went to a few shops and a post office. But by the time we were walking back to the car I realized the ordeal was not over. I sent Larry to the car and headed back into the ice skating rink of a public toilet. I think I actually vomited up some internal organs that time. Possibly I even lost a pinkie toe. I think I probably brought up the contents of every stomach within a three-mile radius because there really was no way that there should have been anything in there after round one, and yet…
Feeling considerably more shaky I got back in the car, and we started our drive to London Heathrow to return the rental car. No one can accuse me of not having hilariously poor timing. Those of you who have driven over here will know that when I say we had to go through 10,000 roundabouts during the drive I am not kidding. Nothing settles the stomach like driving in endless circles in a tiny car. But at least I knew–I KNEW–I wouldn’t need to throw up again because NOTHING could have survived the last round.
Or could it?
A hint: It could.
As Larry pulled into the rental car return I knew with a sudden and horrible certainty that I was about to vomit again. And this time I had almost no warning. I walked as quickly as possible across the parking lot, and–literally choking it back now–burst through the doors of the Avis rental offices, hand over my mouth, and into the restroom where I almost made it to the toilets. Almost. I got as far as the sinks.
The one small mercy is that no one walked into the restroom at that point.
So, nagivating the world in a fog, and with the worst taste EVER in my burning throat, we caught the shuttle to Heathrow and bought tickets for the hourlong tube ride to London. From there we stumbled to the rental office for the flat we’re staying in. Then walked for god knows how long to get from there to the actual flat. I don’t even know. At that point I just wanted to get somewhere, anywhere, where I could safely be unconscious.
Finally I was allowed to collapse on the world’s smallest, least comfortable bed. I slept for many hours. Larry worked on homework. He ventured out for food. He watched TV. I slept on. Time passed. Eventually I woke to find Larry had bought me a Gatorade. Larry is a most excellent human being. He also bought me a smoothie but decided to drink that himself before I woke up. Nobody’s perfect.
Around 7:30 pm, having kept the Gatorade down and wasted an entire day in London, I figured I was well enough to venture out for a little while. So we walked to the closest Underground station and headed to the Embankment to take some night shots:
After about an hour of that we went back to the room so I could rest some more. Ah well.
This morning I am feeling less than perfect and have a horrible pain in my neck, but I’m still doing considerably better than yesterday, so we are off to explore. Wish me luck!