Virginia, Visas, and...Vomit

Have you ever taken a trip where the reality of it turned out to be completely different from your expectations?

Well, that’s what happened to me on my recent trip to D.C.

It was my longest trip alone and away from my two-year-old daughter since she was born. What I expected was good times with friends I rarely see, enlightenment about the latest twists and turns in immigration law, and a free and fun-filled few days to tour and visit my favorite spots.

What I got was mostly King Street, Alexandria, Virginia; an overview of what I already knew about visas; and lots of vomit (apologies to the Jefferson Memorial groundskeeper…)

To begin with, my hotel was directly across the street from the Alexandria Courthouse, where media camped out in vans the whole time I was there in anticipation of hearings for several of the Russian spies. I was in the middle of national news every time I walked out of my hotel lobby, which I found to be amusing and totally unexpected.

Then, it turned out that my hotel was a good distance from the main street, King Street, in Alexandria. My shoe rubbed a big blister on my toe after I made the walk one time during my first night there.

Oh, and the traffic – horrendous - but I knew that. I just forgot how bad it could be until I was sitting in the middle of it on the way to and from my conference hotel, or driving twenty-minute-miles around town, or trying to get home on Saturday in what appeared to be the Fourth of July weekend parking lot on four lanes of I-85 South between D.C. and Richmond.

Aside from the location and traffic set backs, I was still enjoying Alexandria and the conference and the company of friends. I saved some of the best outings for the arrival of G, my dear college friend who just happened to be coming to D.C. the week I was there.

But my big plans for sightseeing and gallivanting around town with G were put to a quick end when she ate two soft boiled eggs during our lunch at some quasi-French corner café (that looked deceivingly quaint and European). A couple hours later, during our self-guided walking tour of the major D.C. monuments, G fell victim to food poisoning and wound up doubled over on the steps of the Jefferson Memorial unable to do anything but vomit in the grass (she was patriotic enough not to throw up on the actual monument).

G could barely move, which is when I discovered how poorly staffed those places are for any kind of health emergency. I couldn’t find a single person with authority to help her get out of there. Not even a golf cart or van or something. Nobody could tell me how to get my car from the mile-away parking lot to the circular drive next to the monument without drawing the attention of FBI and Homeland Security. Poor G was going to have to walk all the way back to my car. And she did. Such a trooper! But she was wiped out.

After all that, G insisted that we finish our monument tour by driving through the Mall area, even though poor G could only recline in the passenger seat and try to keep from vomiting again. I made it fast. Since we were so close to the Mall already, I drove around a few times, jumped out and snapped pictures, and then took G back to the hotel for some rest. As soon as we walked into the hotel room, more vomit.

Oh, poor G.

I doubt she’ll ever have soft boiled eggs again.

I won’t.

With G recovering in the hotel on the last night of my trip, I strolled alone down King Street past rows of restaurants and shops, taking pictures and wishing G felt well enough for the girls’ dinner we planned for that night. I just hated that she was sick during our visit because, living on opposite sides of the country, we rarely have time together. She came to D.C. early just to hang out with me. The last thing we expected was vomit.

Damn those eggs.

Most importantly, G was feeling better by Saturday. Unfortunately, that was the day I had to leave.

And so it goes.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I did have good times with friends (vomit excluded) and learned about Virginia and visas, but – looking back - I have to laugh about the many unexpected situations in three short days.

Just a reminder to me, plans or no plans --

Life happens.