Well, friends, October is upon us, which means we've outlasted yet another sultry Texas summer. And apart from the 31st of this month, which involves excessively candied kids running amok in cute but overpriced costumes (that, by the end of the night, appear spackled in a frightening mashup of Nestlé fun-size bars … have fun getting those stains out), October is, for all intents and purposes, a pretty laid-back month.
It's also an ideal time to shoehorn in a quick getaway because, excluding business travelers and the occasional adventure seeker, October isn't a terribly crowded travel time. Nope, the majority of voyagers do so during the summer. Like I did. And, to be frank, it's an experience that still haunts me. (Get it? Halloween? Haunts? Yeah, it's a long-shot, but just trying to be relevant.)
It was mid-July. I was all set to bid adieu to the Fort for a fun-filled trip to France, where I'd sample a mélange of délicieux meals and imbibe in a - ahem - sampling or two (or more) of amazing wines. My transatlantic flight would whisk me away to Paris, where I'd catch a connecting flight to France's southernmost region and bask in its Basque country glory.
Right?
Wrong.
I think I've explained before that my life doesn't always take the most trod path - and that's not for lack of trying, trust me. You might recall that back in July (consequently, at the EXACT SAME TIME of my French retreat), a nasty bacteria contaminated our food supply and sickened a whole bunch of folks in several states, including ours.
You see where this is going, don't you?
One day before crossing the pond, I felt it. You know - that unmistakable pang informing you immediately: Something is not right. (Mine, for the record, simply said, "Alison, you are sooo %$-ed!")
"Oh, honey," my buds chirped as my belly churned. "It's your first flight across the ocean; it's just nerves." One well-meaning pal suggested I load up on Immodium to quiet my tummy. (Um, without being too graphic here, let's just say I might as well have popped M&Ms for all the good that did.) Honestly though, I figured I had your basic 24-hour bug. Here one day, gone the next.
Wrong again.
But being the soldier I am, I Boeing 777"d my way to the land of Francophiles on a wing and a prayer. Upon landing, my formerly grumbly belly broke out in a full-on war, and by day three, it was raging. Long story short: After sprinting to nearly every toilette along the French-Spain border, I needed to call a truce.
Or, in my case, a doctor, whom I called on a Sunday morning. (Well, actually my sweet beau did, while I lay prostrate in bed, wincing in pain and bemoaning my untimely demise.) The good doc assessed my condition and announced that, yes, I had food poisoning but that, if I took the drugs he prescribed, I'd be right as rain.
And that dude didn't lie. Within two doses, I was already on the mend! And I still had a few days of vacation left, where I was able to nosh on extraordinary cuisine and behold some of the most gorgeous scenery on earth. (Sadly, though, no vino. My battered abdomen just couldn't stomach it.)
So besides snapping beaucoup photos and, of course, stockpiling tons of unforgettable memories, I now have this, well, gut-wrenching story to share. (Lucky for you, dear readers, space constraints have limited me to the condensed version.)
I think my stepdad summed it up best: "Most people get stomach problems after they land overseas. But, Alison, you're the only person I've ever known who brought one with her."
Yep, that would be moi.
C'est la vie.
