True love...honeymoon style.

Oh yes, I'm breaking out all the good Spain stories. Maybe they aren't great, but I have fun telling them.

On our third evening in Madrid, P.I.C. and I went out, as per usual, for some tapas at a local cerveceria. As we had done on the previous night (the aforementioned episode with fino), we were inclined to wander a bit in search of one final drink. We located a Madrid-based brewery (interestingly enough, a German-style restaurant) and popped in for a beer.

We were tired and had to get up to travel to Sevilla the following day so we called it a night after one beer. Sleep came quickly for me until about 4:30 a.m. I awoke with a horrific stomach ache. I had to bolt to our bathroom to vomit. Sadly, this was not a one-time incident. I continued to have to rush to the bathroom every fifteen minutes or so until probably 9:00 a.m. the next day, the time when we had planned to wake up, pack up, and head for Andalucia. (P.S. If you care, I pronounced that An-da-loo-THEEE-a, just like a real Spaniard.)

One brief aside is required at this point. If you have traveled to Europe, you are aware of the size of European hotel rooms. They are rather...efficient. Small. Cozy. THE BATHROOM IS NOT FAR FROM THE BED. So, on my honeymoon, I proceeded to get violently ill over and over again within a few short meters of my newish husband. The poor guy.

We debated staying in Madrid for another day so that I could rest. I, however, am quite stubborn, and never let a little nausea affect my life. (I'm quite adept at functioning with a hangover, thank YOU. I did go to college AND law school.) We packed up our large backpacks and began the ten minute walk to the train station. Well, it was ten minutes when we did it the day before. This day, we had to keep taking breaks for me to sit down and rest. I was so weak from all of the vomiting (et cetera) that I couldn't walk very far without feeling light-headed.

We made it. We made it to the train station. We made it to Sevilla. We made it to our hotel. We made it to our room. I didn't puke once. At this point, P.I.C has kindly offered to visit the pharmacy for me. Our dear friend (who is conveniently from Spain) advised us that pharmacies in Spain are fantastic, the pharmacists speak English, and one will certainly cure me from what can only be certain death at this point.

P.I.C. trekked out to the pharmacy. I wish so much that I might have been a fly on the wall as this went down. I had taught P.I.C. how to say "My wife is sick" in Spanish and then advised him to mime a person vomiting (et cetera). I thought he was just fine. He came back to our room rather flushed and frustrated with medicine. Apparently, she did not speak English. My phrase did not help him. My miming did not help him. Eventually, the pharmacist figured out what probably ailed me (i.e. some sort of a stomach bug) and sold him some medicine. P.I.C. sweetly brought the medicine back for me, a loaf of bread (since I hadn't eaten the entire day) and some water.

At this point, he looks at me and says, "Do you mind if I go get something to eat? I haven't eaten anything all day." What a trooper. He left me to the giant bathtub and my Nook and found a place to sit outside and enjoy a meal, sans sick wife.

So, stomach bug on your honeymoon? Not so romantic. Willingness to mime vomit and diarrhea to a Spanish-speaking pharmacist? That's love.