Spraying the subway tracks
I felt it coming. Quickly. Like a sneeze you can't control. We were outside in Meyong Dong, the busy shopping area and the streets were jammed with people doing a little late night shopping before the Lunar New Year. I bent over the bench and threw up my lunch into the clean white snow. Danielle looked on in quiet disbelief. When the wretching was over we headed for the subway, feeling confident I could make it the hour back to my apartment. Three stops later, I rushed off the subway just in time to hurl off the platform and onto the tracks.
"Hey," an old man yelled as I projectile vomitted the water I'd just drank down onto the tracks.
"Sick," Danielle said, pointing to me and rubbing my back. I looked up at the old man, dressed in a reflective vest, face mask, and yielding a baton, used to stear people clear of the tracks who are either too drunk they may just fall or intentionally jump in front of the subway. He laughed. I laughed back, as if to ask him if he really thought this was funny. He got the hint and walked away as I leaned over the edge again.
"Three more stops to Chang Dong," Danielle said. "Do you think you can make it?" Three more stops before we had to walk up two flights of stairs, wait for another subway, get on, get off, walk up and down more stairs and then walk the 1/2 mile to my apartment.
I slouched down on the dirty tiles and wanted to curl up and go to sleep. "Let's get a taxi," I said, certain I would need to jump off the subway several more times and not sure I wanted to brave the transfers or the chance I couldn't make it off in time.
In the taxi, armed with a plastic bag (which I only had to use once) I crossed my fingers and only had to make the driver stop twice before finally making it home, where I spent the night rushing to the bathroom to hug my porcelain saviour.
The thing about getting sick here,is if you're not home, it's difficult to get there. It takes time, it takes using a language I've got a limited grasp on, it takes transfers and stops and walking and hailing taxis, and it takes not throwing up in a plastic bag. But, in the end, I made it. Another triumph!
"Hey," an old man yelled as I projectile vomitted the water I'd just drank down onto the tracks.
"Sick," Danielle said, pointing to me and rubbing my back. I looked up at the old man, dressed in a reflective vest, face mask, and yielding a baton, used to stear people clear of the tracks who are either too drunk they may just fall or intentionally jump in front of the subway. He laughed. I laughed back, as if to ask him if he really thought this was funny. He got the hint and walked away as I leaned over the edge again.
"Three more stops to Chang Dong," Danielle said. "Do you think you can make it?" Three more stops before we had to walk up two flights of stairs, wait for another subway, get on, get off, walk up and down more stairs and then walk the 1/2 mile to my apartment.
I slouched down on the dirty tiles and wanted to curl up and go to sleep. "Let's get a taxi," I said, certain I would need to jump off the subway several more times and not sure I wanted to brave the transfers or the chance I couldn't make it off in time.
In the taxi, armed with a plastic bag (which I only had to use once) I crossed my fingers and only had to make the driver stop twice before finally making it home, where I spent the night rushing to the bathroom to hug my porcelain saviour.
The thing about getting sick here,is if you're not home, it's difficult to get there. It takes time, it takes using a language I've got a limited grasp on, it takes transfers and stops and walking and hailing taxis, and it takes not throwing up in a plastic bag. But, in the end, I made it. Another triumph!
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