A Not-So-Fun Tradition

I used to like to travel.

Did you notice I said "used to"?

Let me 'splain.

My trip out to Denver to the Rocky Mountain Fiction Writer's Conference was fine. No problems. In fact, on my flight, I had four search and rescue dogs (two golden retrievers and two black labs) en route to some part of the country to help out (I never did learn where they were going), and their presence seemed to relax everyone on the flight.

I made it to my hotel without incident. The conference was good. My room was fantastic. The food was superb.

And then I woke up on Sunday morning and thought I was going to die.

No! I thought. This cannot be happening again!

Dear readers, if you've been following my blog for awhile, you'll know that I was the victim of food poisoning when I was in London in October of 2008.

I think the same thing happened to me on Sunday, though not as bad as London, and I cannot be sure if it was food poisoning or a virus. Either way, I was sick, could not attend the last day of the conference, and had to wait until 9:30 p.m. to go home.

Yes, you read that right. My flight was at 9:30 p.m.

Originally, I had planned to spend the afternoon hanging out with my dad and his girlfriend, who came to Denver to spend time with me. Since I am originally from the western part of Nebraska, Denver is only a few hours from home. So I was looking forward to doing some shopping, visiting the Tattered Cover Bookstore in downtown Denver, and enjoying the sights.

But Sunday morning changed that.

I have to give kudos to the hotel. They treated me with the utmost kindness, sending up toast and tea (and not charging me for it) and making sure I was ok. By early afternoon, I was feeling somewhat better, and since I had to check out of the hotel, my dad picked me up and we spent the afternoon together. But I still didn't feel good.

I got to the airport around 7:30, figuring I would only have to kill a few hours before my flight at 9:30. But as soon as I got through security and made it to my gate, I saw that my flight had been delayed until 11:30 p.m.

My head throbbed, my stomach ached, and I had to sit in an uncomfortable airport seat for FOUR HOURS.

I just wanted to go home.

By the time the plane arrived and we boarded, I was never so relieved. (Though I admit the steward's message of, "Sorry we were late, but our plane was having mechanical trouble. But we fixed it and she's been flying fine ever since!" did NOT make me feel better...)

I arrived home at 2:30 a.m. on Monday. I clung to my husband when he picked me up, and when we got to our cozy Cape Cod house, I almost cried in relief. I spent most of Monday sleeping, and was still recuperating yesterday.

I've decided I'm done traveling for awhile. This getting-sick-at-the-end-of-vacation tradition is NOT a good one!