My head throbbed and my body about to explode. Loud voices permeated the room as I slowly opened my eyes. I was hooked up to an IV, and saw five men wearing white jackets and stethoscopes standing over me, frantically arguing amongst themselves in Italian. “Lei è cinese? O è coreana? Forse lei è giapponese.” The doctor with the thick mustache lit a cigarette. I coughed and gagged. Finally, one of them looked down at me and asked, “Sei Giapponese?” I had no energy to respond. I’m on my damn honeymoon and I’m going to die, I thought. Help me. And then I passed out.
It was the summer of 1978. My husband and I planned to conquer the world as newlyweds – seven European countries in 21 days. With a Frommer’s in hand, backpacks on our backs, and a couple of Eurail passes, we merrily railroaded our way through Europe. There were no cell phones or internet connections or iPads back then. Aside from the folks who directly dealt with tourists, few Europeans spoke English.
Two weeks into our trip, we ferried across the Adriatic Sea from Athens to Bari, a port city in Southern Italy. Being a night crossing, we grabbed canned sardines, a loaf of bread and some fruit to eat onboard. Arriving in Bari the next morning, we boarded the train to Florence. Ten minutes into the train ride, I knew something was wrong. I suddenly felt deathly ill, like stabbing-pains-in-the-gut ill. For the next two hours, I heaved and vomited into a filthy commode. I finally couldn’t take it anymore, and told my husband, “We have to get off the train. NOW!”
At the next station, my husband used broken Italian and his best pantomime to explain to the portly station master of my dire predicament. He grabbed our backpacks and sprinted toward the taxis, shoving everyone in line aside. “Togliti di mezzo! Questa ragazza è molto malata!“ Waving his hands wildly, he then shouted something to the taxi driver, and off we were to god knows where. The driver sped through red lights, zigzagged through narrow alleyways, and dodged drivers left and right. This was more than I could handle, and I started puking violently out the window. When we arrived at the hospital, the staff whisked me into a dark, dismal-looking room crammed with silver medical cabinets and IV units. Again, my husband used hand gestures to communicate. A doctor quickly gave me an injection.
I blanked out.
When I woke up later that afternoon, I felt drowsy but markedly better. An elderly doctor who spoke some English explained that I probably contracted food poisoning from the canned sardines and that I was severely dehydrated. He assured me I would be fine and advised me to get some sleep before moving on with our travels. I thanked him profusely.
“By the way, where are you from?” the doctor asked. I told him I was Japanese, born and raised in the States. He smiled and said, “Ahh. I see. You are the first foreigner we’ve treated here at this hospital. So, we were curious. Nice to meet you.”
A few hours later, my husband and I were back on the train to Florence!
Needless to say, I’ve not eaten sardines since.
