A week ago Saturday, I left Vancouver, heading for a 6 day business trip in Madrid. My main objective was to work through a challenging budget cycle with my finance partner (Marisa). We always work best live. The new Madrid office had just opened, and I was looking forward to seeing the studio they had constructed in an old industrial building. (Stunning!) This would be my 4^th or 5^th trip to Madrid. I have grown to love that city. 

I planned to squeeze in a bit of shopping and a trip to the Thyssen-Bornemisza National Museum in my few spare hours. The first was mildly successful (an hour or 2) and the second – just never happened. Simply wandering the streets is enjoyable. The architecture is endlessly interesting and I always come away with a few more photos of things I did not notice last time.

It was sunny, and unusually windy, when I first arrived, The trip had been uneventful, though the flight was a bit late arriving so I adjusted my plans from art to shopping at El Cortes Engles. I love Spanish style and find the clothing more affordable than similar styles at home. I spent an enjoyable hour looking at shoes, handbags and spring clothes. A few things were acquired. My time was short as I was scheduled to meet one of my colleagues for dinner at Mercato San Miguel.

We walked through the Plaza Mayor (I have never seen it so empty!) and arrived just as the sun was beginning to drop in the sky. The market was not at typical overflowing capacity with crushes of people peering into stalls to check out the many varieties of tapas, We settled on Sangria and Cava respectively. Our tapas choices included a small puffy taco, resembling bao, with a bone-in rib. Tasty, albeit a little awkward to eat. Some pintxos followed, Just a few. The jetlag always makes me tired; my body has no idea whether it is time to eat or not. It was a relatively early night, especially by any local measure.

The first day (and the second, and the third) were l-o-n-g. I juggled morning meetings with local team members and late meetings with the Vancouver team. Between, there was an endless stream of emails to deal with and documents to review. My days began at 9:00 a.m. and ran until 9:00 or 10:00 pm. Being a respectable dinner hour in Spain, I managed to squeeze in a coupe of nice meals out, opting always for something local.. 

Huge lunches were brought in for us, except for the one day they fired up the shiny new pizza oven and everyone who was anyone crammed into the new cafeteria to visit and talk about the beautiful new space.

And then it happened. On the third day. Five of us went for dinner, and only 4 of us came back alive – at least in any meaningful way.  It wasn’t the wine; I had one glass. I drink very little of late. It wasn’t the octopus; I did not eat a bite of it. (Laura’s stories of how clever octopuses are has really gotten to me.) I only had a couple of bites of the paella as it was made with prawns; prawns and I have not been friends for a while. Maybe that was it? Or food poisoning? Or a random virus?

Whatever the cause I woke up less than 2 hours after going to sleep, soooo sick, for hours.  And hours. And many more hours. At some point I gave up going back to the bed and laid on hard marble floor wishing for death.  In that “I really mean it” way that we only really mean when nauseous and sick and desperate for it to end. I tried Gravol, my goto nausea management strategy; it did nothing to even take the edge off. With a limited travel pharmacy in my bag, there was no Plan B for something like this.

Eight or ten hours later, hoping the worst was over, (I was wrong) I messaged work that I would not be in.  Four hours after that, I started cancelling my North American meetings and calls. Most of the high priority work was already done. I had organized my days more effectively than usual. Four hours after that, I knew there was no hope of me getting out of the bed – maybe forever. It was all a bit fuzzy by then. 

Marisa tried calling EA’s Emergency Travel Assistance. They were useless. I had to call them to give them more information that Marisa did not have, and they still got it wrong. By the next day, the only thing I knew for sure was that I had a $200.00 deductible. Really? That’s where you want to start when I am so worn down I can barely string two words together? Thank goodness I was not lying in my bed bleeding out.

After five hours of waiting for a doctor that I now presumed was never going to come, I did try calling them again. Nothing came of that call either. I checked my phone – no missed calls. And by the time I actually saw an email, three days had passed. I hadn’t exactly been up for checking my email.

Somewhere in there my co-worker, Andrew, from Vancouver (also my market dinner buddy) came by with one or two care packages: electrolytes, water, Pepto-Bismol (disgusting stuff) a banana (that proved to be a godsend) and some crackers. I think there were likely some other things, but it is a bit of a blur.  

I started trying to change my return travel – no way I was going to be able to get up at 3:30 a.m. the next day to catch my flight home. I needed to extend my stay at the hotel and asked Marisa to speak with them, which she graciously did.

The hotel was amazing. Within 20 minutes of Marisa’s call, they called my room. Stay extended. After checking on my state, they notified their doctor to call me and offered to pick up anything I needed at a nearby Farmacia. In less than an hour I had spoken with the doctor, received my email treatment plan and 3 prescriptions for some of the best Spanish pharmaceuticals money could buy.  I actually came home with an extra box of motillium tablets, which no sick and nauseous person should ever be without.

Drugs in, the nausea finally subsided, almost 24 hours of ‘sick as a dog’ later. (Why do we say that anyway? When Hazel is sick she eats grass, pukes a little, and goes about her day.)

The next day was slightly less dreadful than the first. The medications were helping. I was still unable to leave my room, or the bed for that matter. I drank the water with the electrolytes that Andrew had delivered. I ate that single banana, one cautious bite at a time, over the course of the entire day. 

I streamed hours of mindless TV shows like Bewitched, or Dick Van Dyke, snoozing through most of them, too tired to pay any meaningful attention to much of anything.

Word travelled fast. I received so many kind messages from co-workers in Madrid and Vancouver. I felt compelled to reassure everyone that I was in fact alive and how much I appreciated their kindness. Which I truly did. I feel fortunate to have been the recipient of so many kind gestures and good wishes, All of them more more meaningful when so far away from home.

Nights were the hardest as this dragged on to night #4. I was anxious and lonely and eventually well enough to feel the full force of my homesickness.  It was staggering how much I wanted to be home. Every fibre of my being was overwhelmed by the desperate need to be in familiar surroundings. All I wanted was to be in my own bed, surrounded by ginger-ale and soda crackers, with Hazel snoozing nearby.

Well I survived it all, though the aftereffects linger on.  I still can’t eat much – I was on the bread and water diet until last night. Though I did take my last round of meds on the plane with a wee sip of champagne because – well – it’s British Airways and the one-way ticket was $8000 and I wanted to get one small thing out of it. (Besides the pod with the lay-flat bed and sliding door.)

My journey through 3 airports was trying. I was tired and woozy and struggling with recurring bouts of nausea making the journey through security and immigration surprisingly challenging. It is easy to forget to take my phone out of my pocket or my tablet out of my backpack in such a state. The lounge sucked as the smell of food was unbearable. But one step at a time, triple checking frequently, (phone, passport, backpack, purse <repeat>) I made it. The flight arrived one hour early with all of my possessions in tact.

It will take me a few more days to fully recover physically. And perhaps a few weeks to restore confidence in my abilities as a capable traveller. But my journey home brought me one small gift, something to remind me why I travel at all. Due bad weather, we were flying the most northern route possible, just below the North Pole. I had a magnificent 7 mile high view of the sun setting over an icy Greenland. The photo does not do it justice. Beautiful.

Marisa – thank you. For everything.