I’ve always been one of those annoying people who—while not terribly adventurous with new foods—can eat almost anything while traveling, and never get sick…until I suddenly wasn’t.

❤︎

My trip to Israel last month began with the usual jet lag and out-of-sync eating schedule, but I seemed to find my rhythm quicker than usual, and I was excited for the next couple weeks of my honest-to-gawds favorite foods in the world.

My first request upon being back was shawarma, which is so much better anywhere in the Middle East as to make every other version of it pale in comparison. It’s like the first time I had hummus at a small Arab place in Haifa, and I could never look at grocery store hummus again.

While I go to that same hummus place every time I visit Mr. Scout’s family, this wasn’t my usual shawarma place…and yet! ofc the food was still spectacular! And while I ate a bit more than I should have—portions in Israel being decidedly larger than in Japan—I somehow managed to control myself. After all, I had other meals to plan!

We did a lot of eating at home with the family, but my next request was very specific: the falafel place Mr. Scout frequented as a child. Three generations of his family have lived within walking distance of this place, and it’s been open for so long that it has not only changed hands from father to son, but the son who took over is now teaching his kid the tricks of the trade. And I look forward to ordering the same falafel from the grandson once he takes over.

I could continue on and on, insisting that you’ve never had your favorite Middle Eastern or Mediterranean foods until you’ve had them in the fertile crescent, but I’m sure it would be no different from all those people who gush on and on about the pasta they ate in some small town in Italy, or those who say that France will ruin all other bread for you for the rest of your life.

You get the point.

And it doesn’t matter anyway, because about five days into our visit, we went on an overnight trip to one of my favorite places in the whole world, meandering past stalls in the ancient market, and ducking into some truly amazing hole-in-the-wall restaurants, then staying the night in a room that was originally constructed in the Ottoman era. It was perfect.

After a long day trying to hop from shadow to shady side of the street and back, whilst still sweating buckets—my first time truly being able to walk around for more than very short distances in almost two years of extreme disability—it didn’t surprise me that I woke in the middle of that night with dizzying, heavy-headed nausea. And then gut-wrenching pain. After all, I had excitedly walked 5+ kilometers in excessive heat & humidity that day, when my record until then had been just over 1 kilometer back in Tokyo. And that had taken weeks of practice!

As much as I tried to stay hydrated, I genuinely insist that the sun is closer to the Earth in Israel, and I had overzealously given myself heat exhaustion. Not to mention that I could only stand up for twenty or thirty seconds at a time, due to intense pain in my back…though my shiny new robot knees were in fine form, and didn’t hurt once!

When I woke up again the next morning, I didn’t have the energy or the physical ability to do anymore exploring, so we headed home early. I slept off and on that day, barely able to lift my arms, drinking water and sugary soda as needed for calories. Suddenly I couldn’t think of a single thing I wanted to eat, despite having all of my favorite foods within a five-mile radius.

My father-in-law is a doctor, and he made the same diagnosis as I did, telling me to rest and hydrate. When it didn’t get better after a few days, he suggested some over-the-counter medicines, which did help just enough to allow me to eat small meals, and only left me doubled over in pain once or twice a day.

Luckily, my body was kind to me on the long flight home, but once I got there, I wasn’t getting better. When I realized that I had been sick for over two weeks, I finally went to the doctor, and he was genuinely stumped. He gave me some antibiotics just in case, as well as some probiotics because why not, and sent me on my way, with directions to eat small amounts of simple foods, sipping water & sugary drinks as I had been, and taking it easy.

While I was able to eat a very small “meal” or two after starting the medication, I didn’t get better better. However, my regular doctor had fucked off on a week-long summer holiday beginning the day after I had seen him, so I had to trek to the station, take a train to Yokohama, change trains after quite a detour through the next station, and then finally walk uphill for twenty minutes in Kanto’s infamous heat & humidity so that I could consult yet another doctor. And that was an additional record-breaking long walk, though this time with next to no energy, and all while feeling like my guts were revolting against me.

By now, I was convinced that I had somehow picked up giardia on my trip, and the other doctor wasn’t much help in assuaging my fears. I explained how long it had been since I had been able to eat without terrible pain (and without immediate “after-effects”), but he didn’t seem even remotely concerned. I’m sure 50% of that is because I’m fat, so who cares if I’d lost 7 kilograms in 20 days, and the other 50% is because this particular doctor is the textbook definition of unflappable.

Either way, he gave me the scorch-the-earth antibiotics I wanted, as well as even more probiotics, and dispensed with the same advice I had received from three doctors now: take it easy, push fluids, only eat very small amounts of bland food, and only when I felt like my hunger was all-consuming.

Which was all. of. the. time.

I was still making Mr. Scout the usual late breakfasts and even later lunches, though it was hard to even think of what to cook for someone else, when nothing sounded even remotely good to me…so there were decidedly more take-out meals than usual.

A few days ago, I made a tall, proper, gorgeous sandwich—the kind which is rarely seen in the wilds of Tokyo—and then passed it over to Mr. Scout immediately. For what it’s worth, he said it was really good. I nibbled my plain bread with a tiny bit of meat and cheese on it, and nodded. I ate half of my wee sandwich that day, and put the other half in the fridge for the next day.

The next day was my check-in with my usual doctor, so of course I felt kinda okay that day. But surprisingly, the next day wasn’t too bad either, and while I was still having some pain after eating, the food was staying inside of me. Win!

Yesterday was the first time in thirty-two days that I had the desire to actually make something I had a craving for: panzanella. I tore up a baguette, and toasted it with some oil and spices until it was basically a huge pile of golden croutons. After weeks of having to completely avoid fiber, I chopped tomatoes and cucumbers and red onions with gusto. I made a quick red wine vinaigrette with mustard and garlic, fidgeting with the balance of sweet & salty & sour for longer than usual, and then I tossed everything together with some little bite-sized pieces of fresh mozzarella.

It looked good, it smelled good, and you know what? It tasted good! I sat down with Mr. Scout, serving myself a tentative, small portion, and ate slowly as we watched some TV. I even ate a few bites of simple, pan-fried chicken breast that I had picked up from the store…because honestly, standing just as long as it took to assemble a salad had drained me completely, as I knew it would.

I’m trying to be cautiously optimistic, as I’m not sure that I’m completely out of the woods yet. Still, it was nice to be a part of meal time again, and to actually have interest in what I was eating. As those desires slowly return, I’ll do my best to get to the many drafts I have lined up to publish, yet which still don’t sound appealing enough to my stomach to write as glowingly about as they deserve.

Until then, take care of yourself, eat well, and I hope to see you soon! ❤︎