In Which Mel Learns Firsthand the True Speedy Decision-Making and Athletic Ability of Bruce Willis in an Adrenaline-Rush Sort of Moment

(Writing from the top bunk of the Gecko Hostel in Palermo Hollywood, Buenos Aires, Argentina.)

Due to a sudden influx of 53 Chileños traveling together, as I am told is the norm, I am relegated to a four-person dorm shared by Manuel of Venezuela, Todd of Vancouver, and Bruce Willis, of the United States.

Bruce, a likeable guy, occupies the bunk below mine, and snores loudly enough that I am kept up most of the night with a (the only) pillow over my head, headphones in, albeit sadly not connected to anything, as my iphone was pinched on the Subte Linea D the other morning.  Good thing the Argentines believe wholeheartedly in the four-hour evening siesta - I have a shot at making up my beauty sleep later on today.

At approximately 2:15pm, I was on the top bunk trying to change inconspicuously after my shower, and my timing seemed to correspond perfectly with that of Mr. Willis´ internal clock.  Events happen in Hollywood slo-mo as follows: 

2:14 pm:  Mel is inconveniently half-naked and her shirt had fallen to where it was dangling precariously from the bedframe of the bottom bunk. Wrapped in a bright yellow scarf because her well-traveled, fully stolen boat towel was recently deemed wholly unsanitary and retired to a downtown wastebasket, with no ladder in sight because these bunks were put together with Lincoln Logs, Mel is forced to perch precariously with one foot on the back of a freestanding wooden chair in order to climb down from her unnecessarily elevated bunk to retrieve the article of clothing.

2:15 pm: It is while our graceful protagonist is attempting this outrageous balancing act that Bruce bolts awake, hits his head on the top bunk, leaps out of bed and into action in familiar Bruce Willis style, and plows into both chair and semi-nude Mel, knocking them down and allowing both Fodor´s and Lonely Planet´s exceedingly wordy Guides to South America to fall from their shelf onto Mel´s head.

2:17 pm: After a moment of stunned and increasingly awkward silence (on M´s part) and unexplained snorting (on Bruce´s), Mel manages to scamper up, grab the defiant garment, and shuffle into a corner to continue getting dressed.  Bruce mutters some very manly apology and, with lowered eyes, walks briskly out of the room and practically slams the door behind him.

2:25 pm:  Mel rather sheepishly emerges from the Hole, and is invited to BeniHana happy hour by Mr. Willis and entourage.

2:27 pm: Mel packs her camera and heads for the subway, reluctant sister in tow.

Arigato, Mr. Willis!

From the Hospital Bed, or, Is There A Passport Stamp for That?

Well, so maybe eating the week-old Indian Buffet served by a hacking, wheezing, jaudice-eyed old lady at 13,000 feet in Cusco, Peru was a risky move.  It sure tasted great!  And we missed our korma.  We missed eating anything with spice or seasoning, for that matter.

Two weeks later, I´m second-guessing myself. 

I write this from the Traveler´s Clinic in Cusco, where I am rather conveniently tethered to a six-foot pole by means of a much-needed bit of intravenous tubing.  I can´t move, so I´ll type.  One-handed, because as soon as my IV-bound left hand twitches toward ASDF, a sweetly militant nurse places it firmly back on the level bed.

Turns out Altitude Sickness, that awful lethargy and breathlessness, wasn´t the only malady impeeding my heroic ascent to Machu Picchu - I also had the good fortune of contracting four distinct strains of Salmonella, and to top it all off, a giant intestinal amoeba I dubbed Arnoldo (shout to Island Sol Sailing School and a certain equally nausea-inducing South American dive instructor).  Makes me wish there was a separate US Passport Addendum for Illnesses Sustained While Abroad.  Would give us backpackers one more thing to brag about besides our newest alpaca sweater addition, or how well we can roll our Rr´s.

I hadn´t eaten food, not a bite, in over a week, and to those of you who know how much I love food - Thai, sushi, pasta, seafood, salads with crazy ingredients, really elaborate breakfast sandwiches - Mel not eating anything at all is a freak, awful thing.

The weirdest part was, it wasn´t because of potentially humiliating public gastrointestinal encores, or pain - I was completely apathetic to the presence of food.  Why eat, when you can just watch other people indulge, and spend your Peruvian Nuevos Soles on more important things, like keychains with little googly-eyed llamas attached by their ears?

Today, my second day in the clinic, the mother hen-like nurses decided they were fed up with not feeding me, and forcibly ended my hunger strike by thrusting a rather mottled, mushy-looking plátano in my unenthusiastic mouth.  A weird sensation, chewing a banana for the first time in a long while, like oh, that´s what this mouth thing is for?  I thought it was only good for speaking primary-school-level Spanish and coughing Cusco smog.

And still no appetite, still impartial to the coming and reluctant going of the ubiquitous South American Pan de Mierda and jam, but the accusatory glares of the hospital staff are comparable to that of my Jewish grandmother at Passover Seder, so may guilt overcome stubborn salivatory glands, and compel me to consume a quesadilla.

Until then, the Pariwana Pizza Party will have to go on without me.  Just remember, folks, if a week-old Gringo from Portland is making your Pisco Sour tonight, chances are he´s whipping that raw egg into a lovely, frothy, Salmonella-infested foam atop your shot glass.  So drink up, and get ready to finally put that expensive travel insurance to good use. 


Here comes another freakin banana.