Get ready people, this post is PG-13 for gratuitous diarrhea. But, before you gasp, let me set the scene. (Lindsay, the first part is about throwing up so you may want to skip that part)
I am walking home after a long three-hour law class ready to enjoy the fruits of the weekend. As I am mid-stroll, I spy a café that has long since attracted me. The smell of waffles in this place is intoxicating and the presence of nice old ladies guarantees its a worthwhile stop. S, I step in and purchase, after a cursory menu glance, an appetizing sandwich with honey, goat cheese, sun-dried tomatoes, and apples. (To give you an idea of where this is going, I feel nauseous already ). I also bought a waffle and they both tasted excellent. Fast forward to the whole Furman group on the bus barreling– and I do mean barreling because this had to be the driver's maiden voyage on that coach– toward Bayeux. Six hours into the trip, I notice a sincere change in my stomach's constitution but blame it mostly on the nose-pickers poor driving. However, as I snuggle in between the sheets, I realize that I will not be sleeping tonight. With cramps that made me sympathize for anyone who experiences the menstrual cycle, I laid motionless in the fetal position waiting for dawn to break. Dawn broke and with it the vomit came. And by vomit, I mean seriously undigested food parts hurtling out of my mouth... and nose. Moreover, because I was apparently also dehydrated and the food was so undigested, the "leftover log" of that previously enjoyed honey and goat cheese sandwich STUCK to the back of my throat. Now, as I proceed to choke on this regrettable food mass, I realize that I must put my hand in my bily mouth and withdraw said lodged food item. I will not be eating sun-dried tomatoes for a while. After a few more dry heaves and about five tooth-brushings, I walked downstairs to get breakfast and join the group for our tour of the Normandy beaches. Well, breakfast, as you might already be thinking, was a bad idea and only popped right back out a few minutes later...in the hallway, outside of our room. I felt awful for the hotel staff. Probably because I could not justify that 8 hour bounce-fest along French highways without at least seeing the D-Day beaches, I convinced myself that all was passed and that I could continue with the rest of the group. Fatigue was the name of the game for most of the morning but I was able to check the various museums and beaches. After a lunchtime nap on the bus with sir-smokes-a-lot, we went to Point-du-Hoc, the only D-Day spot that still preserves the original shell craters. As we exited a urine-scented bunker, I fell to the ground and spewed whatever liquid and bile was left as the rest of our group and throngs of old people walked by, helpless-and thankfully not stopping to watch the show. There is nothing like vomiting into a plastic bag/ your clothes at the top of Point-du-Hoc to make you empathize with the D-Day soldiers.
Speaking of clothes, let me fast forward this narrative to its highlight. We are visiting our last stop, the American WWII Cemetery above Omaha Beach– which was both stunning and moving, might I add– when I felt that I was on the up and up. While still pooped (foreshadowing...), I was able to walk around and gain some perspective on the numbers of losses and the German advantage at Omaha. I walked back to the bus a touch earlier than everyone else and took my seat. As people began to file back into the bus, I began to get comfortable in the back row that was so kindly offered me. Right as I used a bit of force to scooch back down onto the chair, I realized that force had been allotted to a lower part of my body's inner turmoil... Yes, just as the day was coming to a close and I was preparing myself to climb back into my bed, little old "diary" snuck out for a quick "HEY!". So, I then got to squish over to the Cemetery bathroom, remove a few articles of clothing, and get back on the bus, simultaneously smug and disgusted.
I slept off the rest of the ailment and enjoyed day two of our Norman adventure, including a great visit to the Bayeux tapestry, but the thought of any cheese or tomatoes on a piece of bread gives me the heeby-jeebies.
My apologies for the lack of photos, but, given the subject matter, I can't imagine you would want any.
