Egypt to England: Confessions of an Imodium Pusher

In 1937 Zora Neale Hurston published the novel “Their Eyes Were Watching God” which included the quote, "There are years that ask questions and years that answer." What I thought would be a year of asking questions turned out to be one that answered.

When I woke up the morning Fake Wife and I left Cairo, I had no idea what the day had in store. If you told me getting held up by an Egyptian soldier wouldn’t be the worst of it, I would’ve laughed in your face.

A month earlier, I decided to buy Costco’s travel vaccination program per Fake Wife's recommendation. Fill out an online form about your vaccines, destinations, and length of stay, and voilà, a doctor reviews it and ships your vaccines to your local Costco pharmacy. Perfect for catching up on overdue boosters and getting shots for diseases I'd only heard of thanks to the Oregon Trail game. Pro tip: they also bill your insurance, something that I found a difficult task at other travel vaccination clinics.

The pharmacist gave me prescriptions for cholera, malaria, and an antibiotic.

“It’s hard to go to Egypt and not get sick,” he said, walking me through the bottles. “If you feel sick, take Imodium first. If that doesn’t work, take these antibiotics.”

“Imodium doesn’t work immediately. How will I know to take these?” I asked.

“Oh, you’ll know.”

Fast forward to Egypt: Fake Wife and I somehow dodged the stomach bug in Cairo. On the flight from Cairo to Athens, en route to London, I sat next to a Scot there for work. We bonded over Cairo’s chaos.

The flight attendant took our drink orders. He ordered a beer. I asked for a mimosa because it’s never too early for bubbles.

"Mimosa?" the Greek flight attendant asked. I explained it’s orange juice and champagne. She lit up, "I love mimosas!"

I also asked her to refill my water bottle, something Cairo airport security had made impossible.

Breakfast came. The Scot eyed me when I ordered pancakes with strawberries. He chose eggs. Later in the day, I'd look back at this moment and wonder if the look was because of my choice of breakfast that included uncooked strawberries or my water bottle request. I'd regret one of these choices, but still unsure which one.

Settling in, he raised a toast, "Here’s to more adventures, unexpected or not, and whatever comes next," I believed referencing our Cairo chat, but perhaps the strawberries.

A tray of pancakes, mimosa, and water bottle cluttered my seat’s tray. I admired the Mediterranean Sea below, seeming endless despite maps' lies.

We landed in Athens for a supposed quick layover, but had to endure another security line, and then our London flight was delayed. Onboard, the woman in front of me pulled a casserole dish from her luggage, serving her family first-class cuisine. Finally, we landed in London.

A peek at a Greek woman's casserole dish encased in an Ikea food storage bag.

Relief at being in a developed English-speaking country didn’t last. Fake Wife’s luggage didn’t make it. She cried at the Aegean Airlines counter. My stomach gurgled like an angry monster. I needed a bathroom, fast. Navigating London Heathrow's huge baggage claim, a bathroom under construction, and then a long corridor that acted as a restroom detour, I ran around with my backpack, carry-on, and a 70-lb suitcase filled with several weeks' worth of African souvenirs, hoping I’d make it.

I did. What happened next was what my late grandmother would dub unsuitable for the dinner table, or what kids today call NSFW. I texted Fake Wife, wondered if she had connected to the airport's Wi-Fi yet, then popped two Imodium AD and tried to look presentable when it felt safe to leave the restroom. Fake Wife grieved her lost luggage and inappropriate clothes for London weather and her date with an online suitor.

I suggested that we hit a coffee shop to regroup while I called an Uber. I needed caffeine, grabbed a coffee, and waited to feel car-safe. I called an Uber, but we hit London’s after-work traffic jams. My stomach gurgled again—espresso and milk, poor choices for two hours' worth of standstill traffic.

We found my friends’ flat but couldn't locate the door on the century's old building in busy urban traffic that at this point didn't allow us to standstill or drive slowly, circling for half an hour. Finally, the driver stopped. I frantically grabbed all of my luggage and searched for the buzzer at the building's front door. My friends let us in. We unexpectedly walked into a party. I excused myself to the bathroom. Still no good. Determined, I returned to the living room for the evening's themed cocktail - a gin bramble with tasty berries.

A toast. My friends’ friends were getting engaged! I raised my glass, sipped, felt extremely hot, and realized I was about to vomit. I set my drink down and ran to the bathroom.

Think Poltergeist meets Bridesmaids. The noises I made deserved an exorcist. And the engagement party guests heard it all.

Temperature swings—hot to cold. Sweating, then shivering. I turned on the shower to mute the noise, trying to get warm or cool off. I remembered the Costco antibiotics and took the first dose, praying to the universe for a miracle. When safe, I went to bed. Fake Wife checked on me, suggested the hospital. I hesitated because I didn't want to make a scene for an issue that wasn't a serious condition. I asked if everyone was still in the flat and she explained that they changed venues. To this day, I'm not sure if it was because of the Poltergeist noises that I was making, but it may be better that way.

I slept fitfully, texting the ex about being sick. I started to wonder if I was addicted to texting him for some reason. He replied, "The sick blanket haha" referring to a wool blanket that we only pulled out of the cabinet when we were sick. Then silence. I suppose that I didn't receive the comfort that I was seeking.

Morning. I felt punched in the gut but no nausea. I took another antibiotic dose and peeked out. Fake Wife and my friends were chatting. One friend made tea, and we planned the day.

Actual footage of a London photoshoot. Sandles with a suit even in the pre-Covid days.

"Glad I didn’t get that sick on a plane. They’d have made an emergency landing," I joked, trying to save face. We headed to the British version of a bodega, and I restocked on Imodium AD and Gatorade. We headed back to the flat where my friends made steamed vegetables and rice. I hadn’t eaten in days, and it hit the spot.

Fake Wife flew home the next day. My friends and I saw Mamma Mia: Here We Go Again! and called it an early night.

One friend, a photography buff, had a headshot gig. I tagged along, needing a low-key outing.

Modeling after my Poltergeist experience.

At the shoot, I ended up modeling too while we awaited the subject to change clothes. Thanks to my health crisis, I was the lightest I’d been in years. After, my friend and I walked around Downtown London, snapping photos. First was Chinatown, then past the building jokingly referred to as "The Gerkin," and then to the restaurant/observatory at the top of the Shard. I hadn’t realized how much I needed this. Post-breakup, you feel unattractive. That day, I got dating app photos I liked compared to my poor attempt at selfies.

We ended at an English pub. I ordered fish and chips with a Magners cider. This was more like the trip I envisioned even though the following day was my last day on my adventure.

Chinatown?

I laughed out loud, seemingly random to anyone around me. My friend asked why. I explained I could laugh at life or let its absurdity crush me.

As I sipped my crisp cider and we scrolled through the photos we had taken that day, I realized the universe balances things out. Cairo’s chaos, Athens’ mishaps, a random airplane casserole dish, and London’s drama led me here: breathing, laughing, regaining myself, imperfections and all, a few pounds lighter.

Gratitude washed over me. The adventure wasn’t just places or challenges but people and chaotic travel twists helping me rediscover myself. Life’s a roller coaster—full of unexpected turns leading us to where we belong, like a warm pub on a dreary London day, with a great friend under the watchful gaze of a young Queen Elizabeth portrait.

The Queen looking down at her subjects as they get inebriated.

And as far as the Zora Neale Hurston quote goes, what started out with me asking, "WTF?!?" ended with everything actually starting to make sense.