Je suis malade. Trés malade.
I had it all planed out: During a 22-hour layover in Paris, I intended to make the most of it: a visit to a museum, a coffee with my brother Nouri, a mandatory stop at Monoprix. And although my luggage was already headed to my final destination, I wouldn't let that stop me from frockling through Paris in the clothes I slept in.
"but nothing could prepare me for what was about to overcome my digestive tract"
When I travel I tend to prepare for the worst. I slightly over pack for health and wellness, but nothing could prepare me for what was about to overcome my digestive tract. A bag of organic gummy bears, a soft drink and artisanal olives later and I'm camped out in the bathroom with the worst case of food poisoning. It was the kind of food poisoning that confuses you. Do I sit or stand over the toilet? It's like, "Which comes first, the poop or the puke?"
It was utterly brutal. More so because my Parisian dreams were crushed with a flush of a toilet. All I could do was rest and drink as much fluids as I could take. Before I knew it, it was time to head back to the airport. Ah Paris, I love you, but on this trip . . . shit happens. Literally.