Kelly and Quang's Global Roam

You can take the traveler out of Mexico, but you can’t take the Mexico out of the traveler, especially when the Mexico has worked its way deep, deep inside the traveler’s intestines, and the traveler’s sinuses.

A mere 6 days ago I was bragging about a month in Mexico with no digestive disturbances. Well, the digestive disturbances have appeared, along with a nasty little cold. It’s just that they’ve appeared in Argentina. And yet we haven’t been in Argentina long enough to contract much of anything. We think we brought it in with us, Mexico’s own little idea of a bon voyage party. Only we aren’t partying at all.

We are holed up in our hostel staying close to the bathroom. Here we are in Buenos Aires, a city famous for its nightlife, a city that doesn’t eat dinner until 10 p.m., and we are in bed by 10 p.m. At least we get to live it up a little when all our fellow hostel residents come in at 2 a.m., waking us up in the process.



We did make a rousing attempt at sightseeing today, however. We went to Recoleta, Buenos Aires’ ritzy neighborhood, to find the tomb of Eva Peron. Evita is buried in Recoleta Cemetery, the place where anyone with connections, influence and money in life is buried in death. It is also a place I insisted Quang see. “It’s so cool,” I told him. “You just have to poke around. You won’t believe these tombs. They’re all marble and statues and domes and stained glass.”

We arrived in the morning and fell in behind a tour group on its way to Eva’s grave. We eavesdropped on the English-speaking guide, but soon we had to leave. I had to find a bathroom. Luckily, there was one at the gate.



I reappeared a few moments later. Quang was sitting on the steps of a tomb blowing his nose. He looked up, his nose red and raw. “Okay?” he asked.

I was not. I groaned in response, shook my head and sat down next to him.

“What was it like?” he asked.

I told him. I spared none of the gory details of what had passed in the bathroom.

He nodded. He hummed. He sneezed. He sneezed again. “That’s gross,” he finally answered taking out another tissue to blow his nose. “I think my feet smell,” he added in a stuffy voice. “They’re all sweaty. Are yours?”

“Yes,” I whispered, leaning my head on his shoulder.

We sat for a while, resting, and then decided to give the cemetery another go. We made it to the back wall this time, took a few pictures, and then made another mad dash for the front gate and its bathrooms.

“There is definitely no food left inside me,” I told Quang when I emerged. He was sneezing again.

“Well, I’m not eating anything but medialunas for the rest of the time I’m here,” Quang announced.

“You’re only eating medialunas?” I asked. Medialunas are sweet, small, breakfast croissants. “As in you’re only going to eat breakfast or you’re only going to eat medialunas?”

“I’m only going to eat breakfast and for breakfast I’m only going to eat medialunas. I’m calling it my weight-management system,” he replied. “You should try it too.” Then he looked at me meaningfully and mouthed, “I think I have to go.”

We skipped lunch, deciding on another afternoon activity that did not involve food but did include a clean bathroom nearby: a movie. We found Harry Potter playing in English in a cinema behind the cemetery.

We were early. The movie didn’t start for another 45 minutes, so we found a bench outside in the shade and sat. A few quiet moments passed, then we started to talk. We talked about poop. It has become an unfortunate and gruesome topic of conversation – the cramping, the urgency, the consistency – and yet it is a topic to which we return again and again. We’ve even discussed wiping methods and the amount of toilet paper used. When that topic wanes, sometimes we discuss the color of the mucus coming from our noses.

“This is really intimate stuff,” Quang finally said, putting a hand on my knee and smiling. “I don’t think I’ve ever talked about … this … with anyone else. Happy Thanksgiving, by the way."

"Yeah, Happy Thanksgiving." I reached over and patted his tummy. “How’s that weight-management system going?”

“It’s okay for now, but I really think my feet might smell. I think I need some powder or spray or something.”

It was time for the movie. We made it through the showing, thankfully, without any bathroom calls and afterwards hunted down a pharmacy. We found the foot care shelves and passed a good 15 minutes inspecting the various sprays, powders and shoe inserts. We picked one and headed out.

Back at our hostel, Quang kicked off his shoes and stretched back on the bed. He held up a foot in my direction. “Smell my foot,” he said.

“No,” I refused.

“Smell it.”

“No, that’s gross.”

“And talking about poop isn’t? Come on, smell it,” he pleaded.

“Fine.” I leaned over and sniffed.

“Well?” he asked.

“I can’t tell,” I answered. “My nose is all stuffed.”