Week 10 - Bangkok, Thailand

 

You Will Get Sick

Getting sick while traveling is just about as inevitable as death itself.
I was warned. Multiple times. But after three weeks? Still healthy. Just me and one other close friend left standing—two of the last survivors. Maybe it was that Iowan immune system. Maybe divine favor. I didn’t know. Either way, as the days ticked by, I knew it wouldn’t last.

Enter Florence—week 3—our hotel.

Around four floors, maybe twelve rooms total. By midweek the top floors were basically an ICU. Rumors of a good-looking doctor made their rounds. Coupled with those were a few horror stories I won’t retell—mostly because they’re not mine to tell. But I’d also prefer not to immortalize them in writing.

Still, Florence was golden. I got my ears pierced. We had our first cooking class, and even when the sickness trickled down the stairwell and I was surrounded by three coughing, wheezing, fever-dazed roommates, part of me started to believe I was just built different. Though I did whisper a few prayers while curled up in the corner of the room to God saying: “Just get me to Switzerland.”

And He did. Kind of.

It started on the train from Florence to Zurich—travel day.
One minute I was vibing, feeling fine. The next? A fever. Subtle at first. I missed one activity, downed some water, hibernated under a blanket, and prayed I’d walk it off by morning.

I did.

Fast forward to week ten. I’m feeling great. Riding high off Sydney. Sun-kissed, overconfident, untouchable.

Just another free day in Bangkok with a simple plan: a mall run and a massage. Our hotel offered a two-person discount, and sharing with my roommate felt like an easy choice. I mean you don't overthink it—split the cost get a massage. 

On the ride back to the hotel, I started to feel... off. I figured maybe I was tired. A nap would help. We had the massage booked, and I wasn’t about to miss that.
What happened next wasn’t what I’d call restorative.

We walk in. Separate tables. But one room. Curtain left open. And I'm sweating and shivering simultaneously—full-blown fever creeping in.

I don’t even know if there’s a modern acronym for that kind of friendship level we were at after this 'bonding' experience
All I know is if you're ever looking to immortalize a friendship, try lying down in synchronized silence next to your close friend, practically naked, delirious, and on the verge of passing out. 

The only thing that saved me?
A warm foot soak at the end. Legitimately pulled me out of the Arctic. 10/10. Highly recommend.

What no one tells you is that getting sick at the end of a trip has some perks.
By now, you’ve made friends. And if you’re lucky, the real ones know your snack preferences. It’s a good feeling when a friend pulls through: water, snacks, a lil note on the nightstand. Maybe I imagined the forehead kiss, maybe I didn’t. Either way, I knew I was loved.

But sickness is a boomerang.
One week later, my savior was in an ambulance with food poisoning so bad he had to be rushed to a Thai hospital. I mean—shoutout to him—someone always has it worse. I just couldn’t get over the disappointment that they wouldn’t let me, instead of a trained medical professional, play the role of caretaker—or as I call it: Mom.

My roommate—better known as the other half of "we-swear-it-wasn't-a-couples-massage"—was also sick. I don’t remember the exact timeline—but either way, at one point we were tag-teaming the bathroom every fifteen minutes. Two sick dudes. One bathroom. One roll of toilet paper consumed every few hours, and a  bond stronger than any team-building retreat.

Oh, and remember that cooking class from Florence? The one that was a highlight of the whole trip?
Yeah, Bangkok had one too. I missed it. Crushed me.

All hope was pinned on Wednesday.
Wednesday = Travel Day. Rule of the road: you cannot be sick on a Wednesday. Travel waits for no one.

By then, I was functional. I could stand in the shower. Walk the room. I was hanging on.
But if I’m being honest, somewhere in this blur was a solo meal at a place with a sign reading “Authentic Chinese" that was assisting in my downfall. Was it the trigger? The enhancer? No clue.
All I know is—next time, stick with the group. Safety in numbers. Or at least if you go down, you go down together.

That morning, we headed for the airport. Two-hour flight to Krabi. Easy.
Until the shuttle bus pulled up to take us across the tarmac. Standing room only.

And that’s where I nearly lost it.
The nausea hit like a tsunami.

I stumbled off the bus like I’d just lost a boxing match with God.
Keeled over, frozen, breathless.
Then, as quickly as it came, it passed. I boarded. I survived.

Sort of.

Toilet paper consumption was still questionable.
But I arrived.

---

Getting sick while traveling is the worst.
But it also makes for some of the best stories.
You’ll cry for your mom. Mistake your friends for Jesus.
Thank God the masseuse didn’t ask, “So… how long have you two been together?”
You’ll form trauma bonds with people you barely knew a few weeks ago.

So go.
Do it all.
Just know—you will get sick.
And when you do… at least it’ll make a damn good story.