No one has ever commented on my remarkable body, yet consider this:
Our last day in Portugal, driving from Sagres to Lisbon, I experienced stomach cramps. During lunch in Santiago Do Cacem – bacalhao a bras (salted cod with onions, fried potatoes and scrambled eggs) – I excused myself to use the men’s room. I used it again at the pastelaria down the street.
I was so fatigued by the time we reached the autoroute I had trouble keeping my eyes open. We pulled into a rest stop shortly before the Vasco da Gama Bridge so I could go to the bathroom again.
At our airport hotel I went straight to bed – it was 6:30 in the evening – and pulled the blanket up to my chin to fight off chills. Early the next morning I woke up in a sweat but felt quite good, as if whatever had been ailing me had escaped through perspiration.
I walked briskly through the airport. My appetite returned, and on the plane I ate cheese ravioli in tomato sauce without any repercussions. Our friends who picked us up in Miami had no idea that I had been sick because I looked the picture of health (or as much as one can after a trans-Atlantic flight).
Yet the next day I woke up with chills, fever, and more diarrhea. I spent the day in bed, eating almost nothing and drinking large amounts of Gatorade. I was surprised, of course, having thought myself cured, yet grateful that the virus – for my flight home – had kindly if mysteriously decided to take the day off.
