Shit happens
My palms are sweaty and I feel chills down my spine. I close my eyes. I breathe in and out trying to take my mind off the present moment. I always get sick down to my stomach when I’m traveling. The seatbelt light is still on and I’m squeezing the handles so tight that my knuckles have turned white. I can feel the change in gravity in my gut. Don’t puke, don’t puke now. The light finally turns off and I make my way towards the toilet, swaying along the aisle with the turbulance, or with my knees buckling. I can feel all the eyes turn on me. I’m the only white person aboard. I’m the only sick person on the flight. I feel ashamed. I try to turn my face into a smile, but likely only manage to look that much more sick. What must they think of me?
Early lunch (or second breakfast) at Bangalore airport. I have been running around the terminals guided to all the wrong places trying to find information on my connecting flight. My flight to Goa is boarding at the international terminal apparently and I’m so disappointed with that. Who would’ve thought that the domestic terminal had the better food selection, while the globetrotters in international were only offered heavy masala gravys and dosas. I get a masala dosa — ridiculously overpriced at 230rs — and coffee. Two cups, black, the sophisticated, international traveller that I am. No sugar, please! I request slightly ashamed of my pickiness. The waitress giggles at my specification, as they always do. Is this such a new thing here too? There are a fork and a spoon on my tray, but I dig in to my lunch using my right hand only, trying to avoid my distinctively Western manners. The soupy sambar drips through the dosa and my fingers on my dress and I quickly try to shove the rest in my mouth. Now the chutney is running down my jaw. I hear the giggles around me and I take the spoon. Why always me?
The line at the pre-paid taxi counter at Goa Airport seems longer than the eternity (or 8 hours) I’ve spent without anything to eat. I still feel nauseous and ill. Now very lightheaded too. My boyfriend was supposed to come pick me up, but he’s stuck at work. So here I am, waiting to book a taxi, frustrated with the Indian style of lining up for anything. No order, no logic. Like my day didn’t suck already. I shove my elbows anywhere I see movement. I kick my backpack further when space frees up. This is my spot! Sorry, sorry. How rude of me.
7:30pm and the taxi drops me off in front of the Panjim bus stand entrance. My tummy is twisting and turning as loudly as all the bike and car engines at the parking lot around me. I cross my legs and lean into a metal fence. Its sweet coolness feels soothing. I’m almost bent in two holding my tummy. Pressing my lips together, my forehead lined in concentration the pain must be written all over my face. I feel so embarrassed to be like this in public. What must they think of me?
He’ll be here any minute. Just breathe now, I tell myself. But minutes go by. Multiple texts are exchanged as I have no idea where my boyfriend is nor does he get where I am. Exactly where he told me to be, in my opinion. Now he’s also asking me to start searching for him. But I can’t move. If I could, I would first go find a toilet. But I can’t leave my bags. I’m afraid to even sit down. I wouldn’t be able to hold it in. So I keep waiting, breathing. People are coming up to me now. They ask me why I’m crying. I tell them I’m not, I’m just quite sick right now. I feel ashamed of my public weakness. Everything is fine, I’m just waiting for my ride. My tummy twists and turns in strong objection. I feel something warm dripping down my bare thighs. It’s happening now and there is nothing I can do about it. I take a tissue roll from my bag and start wiping my legs. The world around me disappears. It’s funny how much less you start caring about any misfortunes or other people’s opinion once you’ve pooped yourself in the middle of the hustle and bustle of a crowded city scene. Shit happens.
