We were half expecting to have to brave the long trip banished to the decks due to how cheap our fares had been, but thankfully we were led deep underneath the boat to a warm room laden with airplane-like seats and a few tables. Twenty hours to go and nowhere to lie down save for the floor under the tables due to the fact that the chairs were bolted in and wouldn’t recline in the least. But hey, at least it wasn’t a chicken-bus/boat.
We were reassured when we saw the showers on board and hit the snack bar just before setting off to find that they indeed sold beer. We’d be able to make this work for sure. We sliced open a huge cured sausage that we’d packed in our bags back in Rome, toasted our beers to the next 20 hours, and smiled in confidence and comfort.
Then we started moving.
Directly into a fierce lightning/rain storm.
It appeared that I had spoken too soon.
The boat was rocking and swaying so much that everything on our table was swiftly swept off in a single movement. Before we could finish our first beer, three passengers had run out of the room in merciless bouts of vomiting. Not a good sign. Neither Paige nor I had ever been seasick before, and although we weren’t too worried about it, the thought of actually getting sick became more of a frightening reality as each passenger ran from the room with their hands up to their mouths in an attempt to make it out to the bathrooms or deck.
Paige fell first. One moment she was OK, taking her turn on our mini Italian travel Scrabble board, and the next she was running from the room like a madwoman. Twenty minutes later when she still hadn’t come back I ventured out to try to find her, eventually encountering her at the rail on deck in the dark, immersed in the cold beating wind and booming thunder. The boat was rocking so much that I could barely walk straight and had to keep my balance by holding the walls. She couldn’t talk properly and was in horrible shape, having vomited nonstop for the duration of her time out there, wet and chilled to the bone. I asked her if she felt like she could make it inside if I helped her, and she feebly groaned “uh-huh.”
She stayed in for almost ten minutes before suddenly finding enough energy to run helter-skelter from the room back out to the deck. I felt horrible for her, but so far I was not feeling seasick in the least. At that point, all other fifteen people in our room had fallen, and the animated conversation that had circulated loudly prior to our departure had changed to the sound of crashing waves, creaking boat and an occasional moan.
I immediately joined Paige out on the deck with all our coats in tow, my scarf and anything else I thought could keep her warm. She couldn’t stop vomiting and had no intention of trying to get back inside only to have to run right back out here again. Better to stay where she could let it go when it came.
And it came. Often.
I went back inside and laid down in an insanely cramped space underneath a table, intending to go back out in a few minutes to continue checking on her. But instead, I unexpectedly drifted off to sleep. I woke with a start, realizing what I had done and looked around to make sure Paige had come back in.
She was not in the room.
I looked at my watch – two hours had gone by since I had returned inside. Visions of Paige being swept overboard in a huge gust of wind and crashing waves entered my mind as I ran out to the deck.
She wasn’t there.
My heart jumped into my throat as I expected the worse, but as I turned to go back inside and scour the ship, I noticed a heap of clothes on the wet deck next to the wall. It was Paige, crumpled up in a soggy ball.
When I got to her she was shivering beyond control and nearly catatonic. Her mouth was chattering so much that her weak words came out in staccato form. As I carried her back inside, she explained that the wind, rain and lightning were so bad that at one point in her non-stop vomiting, an especially evil gust of wind blew her own vomit right back into her face. At that point she retired to lie on the wet deck and vomit freely in puddles around her, uncaring about anything except getting through this. She must have passed out or dozed off or entered some freaky state of unconsciousness because she didn’t remember anything until I came to get her.
Back inside, I made up her sleeping bag, got her into some dry clothes and tucked her in, placing Pink Floyd’s “Animals” on our CD player and sticking the earphones in her ears. She moved her lips with an inaudible “thank you” as she closed her eyes and slowly stopped shivering through infrequent bouts of jerking. I crawled back under the table, marveling at the insane rocking of the boat and the sound of the fury outside. It was amazing to me how this thing stayed afloat.
About fifteen hours into our trip, the storm finally passed. I don’t think anyone even noticed, however, because by that time they were all fatigued and drained of any remaining energy...or food. When the sun started coming through the windows, I quietly got up and headed for the bathroom. I was not surprised to see each one of the toilet bowl rims, the surrounding floor, and even the dimly lit walls caked in barf.
I’m not saying that made the sight any easier to experience, it was just an observation.
When Paige woke, she weakly explained that she thankfully felt better, although she had had one final vomit bout in the nearby garbage can sometime in the middle of the night. At that point, she remembered briefly considering going back out to the deck, recalling her barf-in-the-face and deck-puddlin’ vomiting episodes, and decided, “Screw it, the garbage can would be just fine.” I supported her decision.
As I looked around, I honestly thought some of the other passengers were dead. Not a single other person even stirred until there was an announcement over the intercom about our arrival. Their asses were sufficiently kicked.
Paige was doing remarkably well, considering that she had vomited and dry heaved nearly 50 times, and felt like she could handle her pack and walk OK by herself. We strapped on our packs and headed upstairs to see a strangely beautiful day on the heels of such a horrendous night, surprisingly hungry…and already smelling gyros…
By this time Paige was getting a little loopy – it had now been longer than 24 hours since she’d eaten. And it had been over 23 hours since she’d even had anything at all in her stomach. And what food she did have was now digesting in the stomachs of sea creatures deep in the Mediterranean or crustily drying on the deck of the boat and the sides of her face.
In the true spirit of Egyptian street vendors, we found a small little alcove down the block and ducked inside to point at food we wanted. The lady behind the counter wrapped us up a couple of amazing gyros, bursting at the seems with crispy pork slices, thick onions, fries, tomatoes and tzatziki sauce and wrapped in a fresh fat pita. Unbelievably good. We hungrily grabbed our plates and sat out at the sidewalk tables underneath the awnings as the rain started up again and poured onto the street right next to us.
We had survived; solid earth and greasy gyros were our rewards.
This evil vomit story reverberated in my head while I watched this week's Survivor episode. Marty IS a survivor...and yet, it's also been absolutely baffling how he's escaped a rapid departure the past three weeks.
Let's quickly review:
- His new tribe, in an attempt to get him to play his idol, splits the vote between him and Kelly one-leg (a person, I should point out, that is IN their alliance). When the vote ties, everyone re-votes with the threat that if it's another tie, all other tribe members are on the chopping block. Surely Marty will now get 100% of the vote, right? Instead, in a completely illogical vote - COMPLETELY illogical - Kelly no-leg gets 100% of the vote, and Marty returns to camp with idol intact. Huh? Nice strategy Brenda.
- In a second attempt to get Marty away from his idol and boot him off, the tribe concocts a plan to simply ask him for the idol as a show of trust, guaranteeing him that he will be safe, and then simply voting him off anyway. Unbelievably it works, and as Marty hands over the idol, we are sure that he has just done one of the all-time stupidest blunders in the game. Instead, powerless and with no alliance to his name, Marty is safe during the vote and Jill gets booted. Huh?
- After the merge, Marty is STILL the main target - even though he has no idol and no alliance. Jane, in particular despises Marty with every fiber of her North Carolina being - apparently because he didn't befriend her in the beginning or something? Whatever. Still, it looks like a sure thing that he's gone...until Sash expresses remorse in promising Marty the idol back for this tribal, throwing a wrench in the works. However, in the end, Sash KEEPS the idol (huh?), and Marty is spared while nearly-naked Alina gets the boot. HUH?!
Marty is teflon. It will now be anticlimactic if he gets booted unceremoniously. That just can't happen.
Like me, Marty looks at all the carnage caking everything around him, and wonders how and why he was spared. Like me, Marty is thankful, and yet even more relieved that he hasn't had to have his viscous inner soul blown back into his own face by some evil wind. Like me, Marty looks forward to solid ground, and a million dollars (and/or a greasy gyro).
But the real question is, like Paige, will Brenda, DanOnka and Jane end up cold, wet, and catatonic, curdled in their own filth?
This, my friends, is why we watch.
Don't forget the tzatziki.
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