Humanity restored. No, not my faith in humanity, but my active membership in the collective we refer to as humanity.
On Thursday, we arrived in the Mediterranean paradise that is Sant Elm (or San Telm, or Sant Emo, or...) for a much needed break from the prior grueling three days of gastronomical rockstar tourbus debauchery at the hands of the Terres de l'Ebre tourism board, which was predicated by seven oh-so-difficult days of enduring white-glove and red-carpet treatment from the crew from Costa Brava tourism and TBEX. Yes, after 10 days of having our every need catered to, we surely deserved a vacation.
Little did we know that our friend and author Gillian Andrews had other plans. We were her guests, and the valet service would continue for the next five days. We arrived to a fully appointed apartment, multiple restaurants that refused to take our money, and our own personal water taxi and skipper at the ready.
Yeah... a couple could get used to treatment like this. But balance must exist in the universe, and the scales were dipping far too close to paradise to stay that way for long.
[cue the gastrointestinal distress in three ... two ... one.]
Sheila was the first to succumb, with a bout of fever, chills, and more basal reactions to some virus or bacteria picked up along our journey. She spent Friday on the couch, leaving me the sole recipient of Gillian's overgenerous hospitality. Saturday, she rallied like a true champ, and we were able to salvage a portion of the day's plans and take in a few sights together. I, seemingly, had avoided whatever nastiness took up residence in her gut.
I, evidently, was very wrong.
Sunday morning the enemy's Trojan horse regiments spilled forth -- quite literally -- and I was down for the count, with two or three hours of lucidity all day. Sheila was mostly recovered by this point and took her place as solo recipient of Gillian's lavishments. Me? I managed a brief moment to wish my mother and grandmother a happy Mother's Day via Skype. They both agreed I looked like death warmed over and graciously allowed me to crawl back to bed after only a few minutes.
On Monday, I was determined to be better. I got through a shopping trip to Palma, a tasty bowl of gazpacho (cold soup + latent fever = wellness, right?) and even an amazing boat ride along the coast before throwing in the towel and crawling back to bed. As it turns out, I'm a total pansy when I'm not feeling well. That, and the prior day's, uh... contractions had mostly eradicated all the benefits of a month of physical therapy on my back. Oh, balance in life. How I hate you.
Tuesday was a travel day, and all travel days are wasted days. Seriously. Someone needs to invent "The Circuit" from Logan's Run. We'll use it for traveling from place to place instead of finding sex partners. Well, OK... in addition to that. Instantaneous travel needs to be a thing. Now.
Oh, and if those same people could actually give me an iron stomach, that would be pretty sweet, too. Because my tastebuds are craving chorizo right about now.
Cheers from Santiago de Compostela!