Published by admin on 29 Dec 2008
After a disasterous arrival in Albuquerque, where my ears were completely clogged and my hearing probably partially damaged from the extreme pain of severe congestion at 36,0000 feet, my stomach completely empty and our car rental reservation completely fucked, we managed to find the very last car available in the entire city. And I use the word car loosely. It was a cargo van. Like, bare bones, no frills, two seats and not an armrest in sight, cargo van. For hauling cargo.
We ate in Santa Fe, and I started to really take a downturn. I couldn’t hear, I couldn’t stop blowing my nose, and the green snot seemed to be forming at an alarming rate. Things were looking bad and then we tried to get our cargo van out of the low clearance parking lot. Let’s just say it’s a good thing the van is too tall to see the roof when they check for damage upon return, and leave it at that. We left Santa Fe and it started to snow. The cargo van started to flash lights about tire pressure and I’m pretty sure Mr. F had had it about up to here with my whining.
I think I took up prayer again for a brief moment before Mr. F gave me a Xanax on the windy road to Taos. We finally got to our room in the Taos Inn (one of the 10 most romantic inns in the country… snort, hack, cough, etc.) and Mr. F built a fire in our hobbit sized abode. It was safari themed. Things were grim.
I didn’t sleep all night and by morning I was pretty sure I was going to die. I had the flu and how. I managed to eat a bowl of New Mexican Green Chile soup (which was lukewarm temperature wise, but hot hot spice wise. I could hardly taste it). By the time we got back to the room, I was shivering, every bone in my body was aching, and Mr. F was on the phone with our doctor, and taking my temperature. I had a fever of 100.2. Not terrible, but concerning considering the massive amounts of drugs I was taking that all contained fever reducers. The doctor called in a Z-pack immediately and I passed out after taking another hit of Theraflu.
By Sunday morning I was feeling better, but the double strength antibiotics gave me a triple strength case of gastrointestinal distress. I couldn’t leave the 20 foot radius of the hotel for fear I’d shit my pants. It was tres romantique.
They moved us into a huge room for our last night with a fire place we could actually see from the bed, and after a double dose of immodium and two margaritas I was ready for action. Which is probably why I woke up with a bladder infection this morning.
I saw nary a ski slope.
I have experienced some awful vacations in my day, and had Mr. F not been so easy going and doting and absolutely perfect in every fucking way, I would put this in the top ten most horrible travel experiences of my life.
It’s always good to come home, but a first class upgrade on our final leg, paired with the most comfortable shoulder to lean on, and I think I might have creamed my pants. Let’s just hope that’s not some new symptom for an illness I’ve yet to uncover.