The Lome Vay-Kay

When you become sick in a foreign land, everything becomes suspect - the food you eat, the water you drink, the bed you sleep in and the people you talk to. You find yourself eating less, wondering how long you can go without food, just in case you eat something that may not agree with you. You peer through bottled water as if you could see the guilty party floating between the molecules, waiting to curl up in your stomach. You go to sleep early and wake late, hoping to avoid as much social interaction as possible. You sniff things and poke things and taste things and give the raised eyebrow to just about everything you come in contact with. You find yourself saying things like 'hey, it could be worse' and 'at least Im not...' then cursing yourself when it -A) becomes worse and B) you find that you, in fact, are.

So, here I sit in the med unit in Lome, nursing my tropical virus with candy bars and lukewarm cokes while saying things involving worse situations and glass half full analogies and I can't help but feel like a bit of a criminal. Sure, 104 degree temperatures and losing your guts from both ends 12 times a day sounds like a pain, but there's something about the internet and hot showers that makes it seem like I won out on this deal.... revenez vites mes amis....