First, I was too hot. Then, I was too cold. Then, I was just pure miserable.

After I left the bath, I reunited with Sayid who asked me to dinner, handing me  a small piece of paper with “S” his number scribbled on beneath. I told him I would call him once I rested for a bit.

We had spent the entire day together as he took me around the thousands of winding roads in Fes, to the tannery, up to a hill that provided a spectacular view of the brown-colored city below and more.

I wasn’t going to decline dinner, but I knew I needed to have some “me” time for a bit.

But, I never made that call.

After I had rinsed my hair out, I realized I was feeling really wiped out. Like, exhausted.

I crawled into my little bed in my little room and then hell broke lose.

Suddenly, I had a fever. My lower back hurt. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t talk. I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t move.

I was sick.

The warnings ran through my mind: Don’t eat the fruit. Don’t eat the vegetables. Don’t drink the water.

The tastes of the mint tea, the pancakes, the salad dressing, sat stale in my mouth.

No more Moroccan food.

I was sure it was something I ate since I had conveniently discarded those warnings as I enjoyed crispy salads and sweet watermelon.

Alternating between hot and cold, I tossed and turned, semi-delusional for 12 hours. In my mind, I had called Sayid and asked him to go to the Berber pharmacy to get me medicine to cure whatever it was that had taken over my body.

Of course, that didn’t happen in real life.

Instead, I powered through being sick.

The next day, I left Fes and headed to Casablanca, still sick. Still miserable. But, at least my fever had broken.

I boarded the train and slept nearly the entire way there.

When I finally arrived in Casa, I scouted out the closest Pizza Hut.

Hello there, Appetite. Nice to have you back.

After downing some greasy, saucy deliciousness, I returned to the hostel, showered and popped two Tylenol PM and passed out at 7 p.m.

I had intended to tour the city. My grandfather had been there during the war and had told me about it, and it was important for me to visit the city since he had been there decades earlier.

I didn’t get to see the city, other than walking like a zombie through the medina and out of it’s walls into town for food.

But, I tried.

Finally, two days after the initial sick, I felt better as I boarded my next bus to Marrakesh.

4 comments

  1. Oh no, I don’t envy you at all. Knock on wood, I haven’t been sick yet but if I do I’m leaving my dorm and getting a private room, there’s nothing worse than being around others when you’re sick.

    Glad to hear you’re feeling better.

    Like

    1. Oh, being sick was MISERABLE. Those hours were by far the WORST I have felt since I left America. Thankfully, the rooms there were so cheap, it cost $5 more for a private. Granted, it was the size of a closet, and the bed was a cot with a rock for a pillow, but it was all mine.

      Like

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