The Thong Also Rises (27 page)

“I can make it over the pass. Let's just ride,” I pleaded.

Bob shook his head. “You'll never make it.” I knew he was right.

A steady stream of traffic was headed over the pass to the next day's race course. I smiled and tried not to look sick as I held out my thumb. Elderly couples driving big RVs eyed us suspiciously and sped past or avoided eye contact all together. Younger couples in European two-seaters drove by and shrugged “sorry” at us.This wasn't working.

It shouldn't be this difficult for a Lycra-wearing blonde to get a ride
, I thought. I glanced at Bob. He hadn't shaved in a couple days and he looked like the hippies we saw in the grocery store stealing dog food by stuffing the bags down their oversized pants. We were not conveying the wholesome image I wanted to project.

“Here, stand back a bit,” I told Bob as I smiled at the next car. The driver slowed and pulled over.

We introduced ourselves. The man was Dutch. “We have bikes,” I apologized. “But look! They'll easily fit in your trunk!” I knew I was being too cheerful, desperately so, but I couldn't stop speaking in exclamations.

“I know, I know,” the man said impatiently. “I saw the bikes—that's why I stopped.”

Once we were on our way, I turned on the charm. Holding up my end of the hitchhiking bargain, I asked the man's teenaged son, sitting in the front seat, about school. As the car wound up the twisting mountain road, I tried to make interesting comments about the Tour de France, but I started to get queasy. Horrified, I realized I was getting car sick. I looked over at Bob for help with the conversation, but he was staring out the window at the mountains.

I leaned forward, pretending to sit closer up front so I could have a more intimate conversation with the driver, but I really just wanted to concentrate on a steady spot on the horizon. When we went around another sharp corner, I realized if I did get sick, I'd barf into the front seat directly between the man and his son. I might as well rob them and slash their tires while I was at it, and then I could officially become the worst hitchhiker ever. My stomach rolled.

“I don't feel very well,” I whispered to Bob.

We'd been traveling together long enough for Bob to know exactly what that meant. In one smooth motion, he emptied his small backpack and handed it to me for use as a vomit receptacle. Not wanting to throw up in the backpack, I put my hand up to my mouth, hoping that I'd discreetly spit up whatever was in my stomach and catch it in my cupped palm. My stomach convulsed. When I started to throw up, Bob calmly reached across me to open the car door. I stuck my head out of the moving vehicle and barfed on the road as the driver slowed to a stop. A line of cars were stuck behind us on the narrow road, unable to navigate around my head sticking out of the open door.

With nothing left in my stomach, I started heaving. I was not holding up my end of the hitchhiking bargain. Awful
retching noises emerged from deep in my gut, and there was apparently no end to them. The cars behind us started to get impatient. Someone honked. No, this wasn't charming at all.
‘There's nothing left!
I told my stomach in desperation.
Stop it. Just stop it!

I started to think about how I had probably ruined this man's belief in being kind to hitchhikers—he might never pick up another hitchhiker again. I felt so bad about this, the retching actually intensified. Now, several cars were honking. European girls probably never took this long to throw up. I didn't want to be just another American behaving badly abroad, but I was.

When it was over, I took a deep breath, pulled my head back in the car, and closed the door. The driver looked at me in the rearview mirror, eyebrows raised. “I'm done,” I announced.

“And now that you got it out, you feel better?” the man asked. His son looked at me, alarmed.

“Oh, yes!” I said cheerfully, falling back into my happy hitchhiker persona. “Much better!”

The man hadn't asked, but I felt I had to tell him anyway. “I didn't get any in the car, you know.”

He didn't seem to be worried about it. He shrugged a little, as if to say either way was fine with him. “That is quite something!” he told me. “Now you can say you spit up on the famous Col d'Aspen, the route of the Tour de France!”

Be cool, be cool
, I thought. “Yes,” I agreed. “That is quite something. So what's the weather like in the Netherlands in the fall?” We started chatting about rain.

The man dropped us off at the town where we were staying. I made it out of the car and over to the side of the road by the campground, barely waiting for him to drive away before I started hurling again. As I leaned on the guardrail, I was
vaguely aware of a nearby couple who were eating dinner in front of their camper. Bob struck up a conversation with them, and between spasms of barfing, I was dismayed to overhear their nationalities. For the second time in one day, I was throwing up in front of more nice Dutch people. I started making the horrible retching noises as the couple continued eating. To distract them, Bob turned the conversation to the politics of the Tour de France.

I was grateful that Bob had taken over the entertaining duties and was doing his best to charm his new-found friends. It was a little odd, though, how no one seemed to mind that I was doing so much throwing up. I wondered if it was common for Americans to puke in front of the Dutch. Perhaps this sort of thing, like the college boys earlier, was to be expected and ignored, much in the same way one would ignore a cute, but improperly trained puppy.

Instead of fighting it, I decided to accept the situation. I would just ride out the heaving as gracefully as possible. My mind started to wander. I heaved again, and thought about how my abs were going to be sore the next day—they hadn't gotten a workout like this in ages.

The Dutch couple still seemed oblivious to my awful behavior. God bless the Dutch! And then, like an athlete in her finest moment, I had a flash of clarity where everything faded to the background and I knew what I had to do. I took a deep breath, and the heaving stopped.

I stumbled, exhausted, over to where Bob was still talking with the Dutch couple.They chatted with me about the weather for a few minutes before sending us off with their map and best wishes. I was kidding myself to think that I'd ever fit in here in France—I'd always be just another awkward American. But in the Netherlands, well, perhaps that's
where my not-so-graceful attempts at socializing and my tendency towards car sickness might go unnoticed, if today was any indication.

“So, Bob, what do you think about going to Amsterdam?”

Jennifer Colvin has traveled extensively with her husband Bob, who has been faithfully by her side while she's gotten car sick, bus sick, train sick, and gondola sick in a variety of countries. Her stories have been appeared in various print and online publications, including the anthologies
Sand in My Bra
and
A Women's Europ
e. Between trips, she lives and works in the San Francisco Bay Area.

Wonder Woman puts the “ass” back in assistance.

I
AM A VETERINARY TECHNICIAN AND INCURABLE
bleeding-heart, so travel presents me with a unique problem. Even while on the road, I am unable to let go of my inexorable desire to heal every broken, sick, needy, or otherwise pathetic creature that has the good fortune to cross my path. If the animal happens to be feline, my desire to aid the distressed creature is especially relentless. I keep a veterinary first aid kit in my backpack for this reason and will do almost anything to help a cat, sometimes even to the point of faux pas.

During several glorious weeks on a small island in the gulf of Thailand, I set out for a day hike with my husband and a few friends. We had barely covered any ground when we came across a most upsetting sight. On the steps of a beachside café in the baking sun, a small black cat lay parched in the heat. She was sick, injured, and dying alone. Tiny armies of biting ants rifled through her fur and crept into her ears and nostrils. Her obvious pre-mortem suffering tore at my soul.

“Not much you can do for that one,” someone in the group offered, eager to end the interruption. That might be true, I thought, but I needed to at least try, and if nothing else I could offer her a more peaceful passing. I scooped up the limp, little cat and wrapping her in a sarong headed home. Back at my rustic bungalow, just feet from the water's edge, I sat on the veranda and assessed my patient's condition. With my trusty vet-bag at my side and a reluctant husband as assistant I began my work.

A few hours later the “project cat,” as my travel mates had labeled her, was alert and could even hold her head up. Although she still had a fight ahead of her, life seemed to be back on her side. Knowing that she would be a long-term patient I set up a blanket for her inside the bungalow. This activity and its consequence did not, to say the least, please my husband. Although he had shown honorable patience in my undertaking, he drew the line at sharing our sleeping quarters with a sick, flea-ridden cat that couldn't control her bladder.

Despite an impassioned though squeaky protest, I lost the ensuing battle and pouted my way outside to see what accommodations I could provide on the veranda. The area was enclosed by a railing except for a small opening at the top of the stairs. My concern was protecting the little cat from any nocturnal intruders, namely the beach dogs who had probably caused her current predicament. Determined to prevent any canine invasions, I built a barricade of rattan chairs to block the entrance until morning. Confident in my modifications, I moved my patient outside and tucked her snugly into bed.

After double-checking the perimeter for safety, I ducked back inside the bungalow to bed down for the night. Hot
and tired from the day, I stripped down to my birthday suit and sought refuge in the comforts of my mosquito net–draped bed. As I crawled under the covers next to my husband, we giggled over the day's adventure and the good fortunes of “project cat.” Amends made, I drifted off to sleep as sounds of the ocean waves soothed my subconscious. All was calm, yet somewhere in the dark distance the faint sound of barking dogs whispered an ominous premonition.

Early the next morning, not long after sunrise, I awoke to streams of glorious sunshine cascading through my windows. As I drew in the sweet splendors of waking up in paradise, I was jolted suddenly from my tropical bliss. I remembered my patient on the veranda as a cold, sickening sensation of something about to go wrong chilled me. It was then that I heard it, the loud crash of my barricade coming down followed by the deafening roar of angry dogs.

I bolted up in bed throwing covers haphazardly to the side. I leapt from the sheets and in the process, became entangled in the mosquito netting. As I struggled to get free I glanced at my husband in hope of assistance, but still fast asleep, he remained ignorant of the disaster in progress. After several agonizing and unassisted seconds, I was free and on my feet. I sprinted towards the door and, in my haste, was as unaware of my disposition as my husband seemed to be of the ruckus on the veranda.

I raced outside and stopped only to grab a rattan chair, which I waved menacingly above my head like a fierce tribal warrior. There must have been at least five dogs on the veranda, all of which were drooling and intent on having cat for breakfast. Teeth bared and growling, the mangy beasts threatened violence. I could see the little cat frozen in the corner, her eyes the size of saucers. She seemed to utter a
silent prayer as she quickly counted the number of lives she had left. The dogs edged closer. I jumped protectively in front of the little cat just in the nick of time.

The frothy-mouthed mongrels had us surrounded on three sides, but in my mother bear's fury, the pack was no match for me. “BAAAD DOGS,” I screamed while I swung the chair and fended them off like a crazed lion tamer. “Wax on, Wax off,” my inner-karate-kid hollered as I spun and high-kicked the air. Whizzing and turning, my hair flying wildly, I held the dogs off one after another until at last, whimpering in defeat, they were gone. Euphoric, I felt like a super hero. I was Wonder Woman…Super Girl…The Feline Avenger…I was…CLICK CLICK…teehee…Errr…what was that???

My reverie was quickly disrupted by a growing cacophony of strange yet familiar sounds. CLICK…CLICK… WHZZZ…teehee. My adrenaline began to recede and a weird sinking feeling steadily took its place as a cool morning breeze registered on a patch of flesh not normally exposed to weather. I realized then that in my race to the rescue, I had neglected to put on any clothes. I was bare-ass naked. CLICK…WHZZ…tee heehee.