Warning: This story contains graphic details.
It began right on schedule, the audible gurgling from my stomach which could only mean that, once again, the king of the Aztecs had come to exact his toll at my invading his country. Without fail, I have experienced traveler’s diarrhea within a week of all of my visits to Mexico. It is completely my own fault, as any of you who know me are aware, I rarely listen to the warnings of others about how I should do things. In addition to the joy I take in my obstinance of defying those precautions, I like to experience Mexico as the natives do, sitting with locals around a street cart, eating things I often can’t identify and selecting some colorful drink, from a collection of open plastic barrels, which is ladled to the brim into a giant styrofoam cup.
This time, I was returning from a visit to the Frida Kahlo house, priding myself on saving the price of taxis by learning the metro system, when I felt my digesting food begin its roller coaster ride through my intestines. A bubble of gas began to pressurize at my sphincter, but past mistakes had taught me that this would be more than gas should I allow its release. My body began to fight my resistance by twisting my intestines like a worm trying escape a fish hook. Sweat began to gather on my forehead, and I began to feel nauseated when I realized I was not going to make it to my intended destination.
The doors to the metro opened, and I staggered through the tightly packed metro car looking like a drunk gringo, knowing I was only moments away from passing out. I had decided that it would probably be better to collapse in the station than on the train. At least there, I might be found by the police. Once on the station platform, I headed for the wall and fell to my knees, curling into a ball with that feeling you get when you’re so sick that you’d rather just die. Certainly that would be easier than trying to figure out how I was going to get back to the hostel while in this miserable state. A couple people passed by, looking at this strange sight. In my prone position, I could have been mistaken for a Muslim doing my afternoon prayers; not a good thing in a country that is 80 percent Catholic.
After about five minutes, I began to feel better enough to sit up and decided I could make it on my own back to the hostel. I caught the next train, made my transfer, and climbed the steps to my hostel dorm room. As I burst through the door, I was surprised to see that despite it being mid-day, three of my roommates were in the room. They yelled and gestured at me frantically, but I didn’t comprehend a thing as I was singularly focused on getting to the bathroom before I soiled my white linen pants.
Relief flooded me as all my poor food decisions came flowing out. After about 10 minutes, I emerged from the bathroom and apologized to my roommates who had clearly heard everything that was happening through the paper thin door. As it turns out, however, that is not what I needed to apologize for. They informed me that the door handle to the room was broken, and we were not able to get out. That’s what they had been trying to tell me when I came into the room. As the acrid smell began to work its way into the rest of the dorm room, it was clear that Montezuma was going to have his revenge on all of us.