It was our last night in South Asia. After dinner, we took a rickshaw across town to our hotel. During the ride, we spoke with awe and wonder about how thankful we were to have avoided all gastrointestinal illness during our two-week stay.
We were literally pulling up in front of our hotel when I started feeling a little…funny. I was sure it was nothing, and if it did turn out to be a little something, it would no doubt pass quickly (pun intended!).
I awoke in the middle of the night absolutely sick to my stomach. I had never been so thankful for a Western toilet. I spent the wee hours of the morning watching the English movie channel (between trips to the bathroom). I’d also never been so thankful for English television. (Something about being sick makes you long for anything familiar.)
The next morning, my traveling companions came to check on me. They, too, had spent the night sick. I blamed the chicken tikka.
I promised to join them in their room shortly. But, after a long night and no food, I could barely walk. I almost passed out on my way from the bathroom to my bed. There was no way I could walk five yards down the hall to their room. I wanted to go home. I wanted my mama.
When I finally mustered the energy to move, all I wanted was a baked potato. I was craving a baked potato. I needed a baked potato. Guess what? There’s no such thing as a baked potato in South Asia.
When I got to the States, I wanted a baked potato. It was a full 24 hours before I got one.
To this day, I love baked potatos. I’m kind of craving one right now, in fact.
