Nothing says love like a stomach virus
By Kimberlee Jensen
Photos by Todd Stedl
One couple learns that travel can define romance in ways that have nothing to do with romantic restaurants and beautiful vistas

During our Christmas trip to France last year, my boyfriend Todd and I learned that hellacious travel experience solidifies a relationship. Since our only trips had been weekend jaunts, Todd expressed concern about spending ten uninterrupted days together.

We had planned a glorious vacation. My mother and her partner, Todd and I were to spend a few days outside of Cannes where I had once spent a month, take a side trip to Italy. Then my mother and her partner were to fly home the day Todd and I would hop a train to Paris. I dreamed of a glorious New Year's Eve (or as the French celebrate, the feast of Saint Sylvestre) under the fireworks along the Champs-Elysees.

My mother called this a trip of a lifetime, but the airline and the Port Authority of New York killed our joy.

I initially flew from Seattle to Providence and spent time a few days with my father. On Christmas day, my mother, her partner, and I sat through a 45-minute bumpy flight from Boston to New York. Thirty minutes after our arrival, Todd arrived from Seattle and met us at our departure gate and I chided him for not shaving. Had he known that was the only opportunity he would have to interact with my mother he would have made a better impression.

We boarded our flight late due to a catering error. Upon boarding the aircraft, we then heard the airport was closed due to snow. We sat for seven hours, listening to the pilot's false optimism. We also heard that the Newark airport (not far from JFK) had reopened but the Port Authority, which operates the airport, had snowplow troubles. Had we departed on time, we would have left before the airport shut down. The crew never fed us the meal that had caused our initial delay. We were not amused.

As we deplaned, the crew announced gate agents would not help us rebook as if we were at fault. I fly several times a year and have never heard this. When we finally contact the airline on our mobile phones, they rebooked us for tomorrow's flight. We called back to confirm seat assignments and learned that "tomorrow" meant December 27. It was now 1 am.

Next, we called Best Western to book a hotel near the JFK airport. We waited for the shuttle more than one hour with growing impatience. We called the hotel numerous times to determine when the shuttle would arrive. After the driver had wasted an hour of his time, we realized this hotel was near the LaGuardia airport, not JFK and Best Western had made an error.

Finally we jumped on a Sheraton shuttle, hoping that either they may have rooms or another hotel nearby would. The Sheraton was full, but the La Quinta had rooms and the only helpful person in the entire experience - Sheraton driver - dropped us off at La Quinta. It was now 4 am.

The next morning, my mother woke up (though I doubt she slept at all) and called the airline. Without notifying us, they had rebooked three of us for December 26. Me, the one who had made all the reservations, have lived in France, and knows the language, was left on the flight on the 27th.

We agreed that my mother and her partner would take the flight on the 26th because she supposed to have only five days in France and my boyfriend and I would take the later flight. I provided her ample instructions as to how to get from the airport to our accommodations. She went to the airport early just in case and suggested we do the same. I was too nauseous to go with her. I considered it impossible for me make it onto the same flight. At the airport, a ticket agent had been yelling at all the other passengers. Of course, my mother had to approach this agent's counter, where she promptly broke down and cried. She realized the trip would only give her two and one half days with me in France and that was simply not worth it. The agent said that had Todd and I been with my mother at that moment, we could have all gotten on the flight leaving that day. I still believe the agent was a lying sadist. However, the agent did empathize with my mother and agreed to give her a full refund. She not only booked my mother and her partner on the next flight out to Boston but also arranged an escort so she could get to the front of the security lines via an employees-only shortcut.

Still, my mother was devastated. She has been caring for her aging parents through numerous surgeries, accidents and stress; she needed this vacation desperately. She was so overcome she had her partner phone me. I spent the entire day vomiting from the stale air that accumulates sitting in an airplane with no engines running for seven hours. I was devastated and spent most of the day in tears. Many people spend Christmas without a single present for their children, so I recognize this sounds like the petty whining of a spoiled American. Nonetheless, I was thrilled about spending several days in a fantastic place with my mother and my partner and of course, hoping they would get along.

Todd was incredibly comforting to me, despite his own extreme frustration with our airline. We salvaged this disaster by viewing it as opportunity for the Wisconsin boy to see the city.

By the evening, with the help of a nap, I felt well enough to explore. We took our $10 cab ride to the train station and my boyfriend got the twisted pleasure of his first subway ride. We ate a wonderful Italian bistro in the East Village. John's is old school authentic, not retro chic; they only take cash and they only serve fantastic food.

The next day, we visited the Museum of Sex. It was far more extensive than we had envisioned, which is a curse when pressed for time. The museum covers New York City's definitive place in the history of American sex. While comprehensive and entertaining, the exhibit erred on the side of propaganda; the information outright dismissed some real issues in the sex trade, such as girls forced to work as prostitutes, which still plagues immigrant populations in New York.

After the museum, we claimed our bags at the hotel and took a cab to the airport (not once during our stay in New York did we take a marked Yellow Cab, which caused my beau alarm, but he trusted my judgment on this). We stood in chaos disguised as lines and dividers for two hours at the international counter. When the agents announced for people on our flight to step forward we did only to find out that the airline had given away our seats. The person "helping us" was of course brand new; she tried to tell us we needed to go across the street to ticketing to get rebooked for the next day. We refused to budge. She then called her supervisor and asked why they could not simply put us in first class since there were available seats and we had already been through a nightmare with the airline.

Even though we had enough time to make it to the gate, first class seats were available, and we had spent seven hours sitting on the runway two nights before, the airline refused to give away the upgrade. Instead, we were placed on priority stand-by for a flight to Paris with a connection to Nice. We stood nervously waiting for our names to be called, developing a contingency plan in case only one of us made it on the flight. Five minutes before departure, the airline assigned us seats.

Once onboard, things went smoothly. The crew even found me an extra vegetarian meal. My original special meal order did not carry over with the rebooking. Because the flight was continuing from Paris to Bombay, the vegetarian meal was Indian curry, not the usual bland three-bean debacle or worse, overcooked pasta with unseasoned lentils.

When we arrived in Paris, we faced an amusing delay. An unattended package had been left near the counter where we were to retrieve our seat assignments. We waited several minutes while the gendarmerie took the package outside and blew it up. We later heard this is an unofficial national past time. Our flight to Nice was remarkable only for the strong, rich, delicious coffee.

As we flew into Nice, we gazed at the spectacular Maritime Alps and Mediterranean. My friend George, a semi-retired American with whom I had stayed the first time I was in France, met us at the airport. On the way home, we stopped in Antibes, a lovely half-walled half-modern city on the coast originally developed by the Greeks. Sitting in an outdoor cafe eating crepes and French cider, we basked in the glow of arrival.

In Antibes, which is home to a Peignet and a Picasso museum, we visited my favorite comic book store; and my friend George, an intercultural specialist/management consultant, discovered a new aspect of French culture. Unlike the thin paper comics in the U.S., French comics come in hardbound volumes exclusively.

After arriving in the apartment we had rented for the week, we soon crashed. The next day brought an extraordinary trip into the mountains overlooking the sea. We stopped at the Fragonard perfume factory, and then visited Gourdon, a medieval city nestled in the hills. Above us, hang gliders floated through a stunningly blue sky. Next up was the Flourian candy factory, famous for its confections with rose, jasmine and violet petals and sugar-soaked fruit dipped in chocolate.

En route, we saw remnants of the bridge over the river Loup. The French had destroyed the bridge during World War II to inhibit the movement of German troops. The last stop on our day tour was Tourrettes sur Loup, a mountaintop artist community dominated by Italian and American expatriates (technically the region once belonged to Rome, so one could say the Italians merely stayed put). As we explored every cobblestone street, my stomach began to knot, which I false attributed to my impending monthly cycle. By the time we returned to the car, I could barely walk. The minute we returned to the apartment, I sprinted to the restroom to relieve my nausea. I spent a horrific night with diarrhea, vomiting and cramps. Todd held me whenever I returned to bed, despite my vomit breath. "This was unconditional love," I thought, grateful for the soothing of his voice and touch.

The next day George took Todd around town to find help for me. The pharmacist, who has authorization to prescribe many medications in France, recommended an anti-spasmodic, some antibiotics, and "the plug." Apparently, many French travelers were returning with the same symptoms.

Throughout the day, Todd returned to check on me. He prepared sport drinks from tablet form to infuse me with nutrients. I felt horrible for ruining his day, but instead of complaining, he enjoyed experiencing how the French go about their business.

George brought Todd to le Geant, the colossal supermarket replete with pleather pants, motor oil, and organic tabouli. During the high season, at least four people work behind the cheese counter.

By New Year's Eve, the day of our high-speed train to Paris, I had recovered. We had a fabulous ride. As he had promised before our trip, Todd carried my suitcase up and down Paris Metro stairs en route to our hotel. I still insist I should have left some shoes at home. Not once did he complain.

The Museum of Sex prepared us for our stay in the Montmarte district of Paris, where sex is so pervasive you can smell it over the dog poop. The district contains very reasonable hotels, plenty of grocery stores, pharmacies, nightclubs, movie theaters, and Internet cafes, all of which make it a convenient tourist location. Unfortunately, it was crawling with un-chaperoned American teenagers. Nevertheless, we had fun perusing the over-priced fetish clothing stores.

Our hotel concierge insisted everything would be closed January 1. So we stopped in the chaotic local department/grocery store to purchase champagne for the celebration and snacks for the next day.

Back in our cozy room, we prepared to go out. Todd had some leftover pate, against my better judgment. At 10:30 pm, Todd announced he was too sick to go out, but that I should watch the fireworks myself. I would not venture into a drunken crowd alone and I would not leave him suffering.

I cringed, knowing he was about to endure the same sickness, but at least we now knew the life cycle and proper treatment.

Throughout the night, Todd moaned and cursed with increasing pain. He asked how I managed to not complain more. I reminded him women go through stomach hell monthly, and could not initially distinguish this as unusual pain. He expressed gratitude for being born male.

Todd felt guilty for ruining my New Year's Eve. I reminded him that he had said, "Spending time together is all that matters."

Techno music thudded from parties everywhere. As the revelers counted the seconds, Todd dashed to the bathroom. I heard "Trois! Deux! Un! Barf!" I struggled to suppress laughter. Street noise and his agony kept us awake until sunrise.

After five am, people quieted and we finally slept, thanks to some wonderful Valerian root we had purchased. In the afternoon, took a stroll to let Todd rest. Several stores were closed, but the district teamed with life.

I purchased some yogurt, crackers, tea, and other nourishment for my ailing beau, and a gorgeous purple rose from Kenya to enliven our room and assist with the stench.

I checked my email, and scoped out restaurant menus. To kill some time, I enjoyed a pint, a book, and a soccer match in an Irish pub. By the evening, Todd felt better. I informed him of his achievement: "the first puke of the new year" and we shared a hearty laugh.

We spent the evening watching France's version of "Who Wants to Be a Millionaire" and "The Nanny" or as the French call it, "The Nanny from Hell." The French actress who translates Fran Dresher's lines has a sultry voice, which made the show not quite terrible.

The next day, Todd extracted himself from bed. During next few days, we wandered around Paris, the quintessential stumbling city. I was hunting for some prints by Parisian comic strip artist Enki Bilal. As we entered the West Bank, we stumbled onto a street with five comic stores within two blocks.

During a windstorm so intense it topped large outdoor plants, shattering terra cotta pots across the city, we escaped to a teahouse. Todd has sworn off pate, instead we savored Vietnamese and Italian cuisine. We avoided some famous tourist destinations, but enjoyed everything we did together, including posing among statues in the Jardin des Tuileries with some outgoing Italian tourists.

To catch our return flight from Nice, we took an overnight train out of Paris. Todd delighted at the operation's efficiency: next to each bed hung a compartment for water and another for wine. We had individual water cups in the medicine cabinet for our medications in the morning; our counter top opened up to reveal a small sink, toothbrushes and other supplies were provided along with several magazines and bottled water. For me it was bittersweet as we were ending our trip.

Our teamwork triumphed over stress and sickness. We are confidently embarking on our next adventure. This spring, we engaged to be married.

Kimberlee Jensen is a teacher, web developer and freelance writer. She has written numerous articles on workforce diversity and the underground music scene. She is now combining her true passion, travel, with her writing skills. More information about her work is available at www.isiseyemedia.com/kimberlee_jensen.html.