Friday, August 13, 2010


Last night, after patiently sticking to my strict Dr. diet and crying on the inside every time I heard the word "chocolate," I felt well enough to La Bistecca, a nice restaurant in Puerto Madero for a sort of woo-orientation-is-over-program-sponsored dinner. And how did patience taste? It tasted like Gnocchi Bolognese with ice cream for dessert, that's what. Anxious to talk to people and make (at the very least) acquaintances after largely being on house arrest, I mingled..... I took pictures.... I got invited to Montevideo the next morning....

And, of course, I did what any 20 year old would do after recovering from a gastrointestinal virus: I accepted. I went home, packed, and at 6 in the morning I went to meet up with two of the ladies going on the trip. (We left super early to be able to buy the 9:30 boat ticket.) We then hailed a cab to the Buquebus (pronounced Boo-Kay-Boos) Station, excitedly chatting with the taxi driver with our embarrassing Castellano. Then, the palms of my hands began to itch. Maybe I'm just anxious? I told myself. As we pulled up outside, taking our bags out of the trunk, the bottom of my feet began to itch as well, and my hands felt hot. I started to think about saying something... but we were at the station and it was beautiful and new and we were the second group in line to buy tickets and I could feel my hands swelling. I told the other girls and quickly rushed to the cafeteria area to ask for some ice. When I returned, I had to take my rings off. I sat on the station floor beside our bags in that snake-like waiting line and began frantically icing my hands. My right foot was swelling up as well and I had to take my shoe off. After several times declining the other girls' persuasions to call a cab for me to the hospital, I finally accepted. My feet and hands were burning and itching terribly. They call a cab, and the program director to meet me at the hospital.

Suddenly, the dinner from La Bistecca hit my digestive track and all the fictitious evil from Friday the 13th movies took the form of partly processed gnocchi and if someone could somehow magnify the inside of my intestines REALLY big they would see those little nuggets of pasta with the facial hair of every bad guy in every James Bond movie (where the bad guy has facial hair) laughing maliciously. Barefoot, I scurried to the bathroom. The stomach virus had not passed. At the very least the pain in my gut was a temporary distraction from my hands and feet.

I returned to concerned, sorry faces and a weekend bag containing carefully selected outfits I would not be wearing. HaveFun/GoodLuck exchanged, I got a cab to the hospital. There, I found out I had an allergic reaction to something I ate (most likely at La Bistecca the previous night), which probably was a response in conjunction to that #$%^&*!! virus.

This little anecdote was a long way of saying I had a very unpleasant morning, and now, sitting on my bed periodically having to pause to ice my hands with a bag of frozen peas and carrots, all I ask is if you have any respect for me at all, please refrain from mentioning the word chocolate.

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