The return home. Ten hours of travelling when you're fevered, chilled, nauseated, achy and exhausted is really quite unpleasant.
I spent a pretty restless night, tossing, turning, and repeatedly crawling to the bathroom, though nothing came out. My whole body ached: I felt like I'd been pummelled. So I was very tired and not to steady on my pins packing in the morning for our afternoon flight.
Andrew slept a bit in the taxi on the way to the airport. I took in the few sights I could from the highways - Montmartre, in particular stood out on that grey morning. The cabbie encountered some strange roadblock near the airport, but still got us there in plenty of time for our flight. I tipped him ten euros for our 30 euro ride, and he actually protested that it was too much. I thanked him and told him he deserved it for being so patient at the roadblock.
The flight was hell. There was only one working bathroom, and the working one was about four feet away from me. The smells didn't help my rebellious stomach, and I was freezing cold. I did not once enter that bathroom, however. I saved everything for home.
Skipping over the details, I lost 13 pounds in the next three days. In the end, Pepto-Bismol was all I needed.
They say one in two people has a chance of becoming sick during a foreign holiday. I've been sick nearly every time we go somewhere. I love my new husband, but it's his turn next time.
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