Carsick Queen.

I was once the carsick queen. I was that kid--the one turning green in the back of the field trip bus, clutching an empty Burger King bag for dear life. My parents knew to avoid the curvy roads, and my mom relinquished her rights to the front seat (where I had at least a prayer of keeping down my corndogs on family vacations) long ago. My grandma didn't speak to me for an entire afternoon after I threw up on a new Easter dress and the floor of her maroon Buick. "She'll grow out of it," my parents always said. But that tremor of worry in their voice told me that they said this to keep their hopes alive that I would someday blossom in to an ordinary, hygenic, marry-able woman so that they wouldn't have the burden of caring for a queasy spinster throughout their old age. Please God, let her be normal!

Alas, their prayers and supplications were not enough, leaving me to cling to my Dramamine like Sampson to his locks. My queasy stomach has an egalitarian streak to it, too, causing me to double over in environs both at home and abroad, with company both dignified and sympathetic--from bus rides in the Ecuadorian Andes, to airplane rides (twice a veteran of the complimentary vomit bag), to a mountain trek in Morocco and a gondola ride to the Masada fortress in Israel. No, nausea knows no borders.

Needless to say, it's quite an embarrassment to an ordinarily savvy traveler, and at the very least, cramps my style. It added quite the romantic element to my travels with Nod in Morocco when, sheet white and shaking, I turned to warn him with grim prognosis: "I have an 80% chance of vomiting," and then returned to stare into my little plastic bag.

My stomach woes struck again this weekend, showing once again no respect for its environ, be it romantic or sacred or otherwise. This time? Carsick on the top of the holy Mt. Sinai where Moses received the divine law from God himself. And there I was, burping my bean sandwich lunch and reeling from a 9 hour bus ride. With a rumbling stomach, I slowed my pace up the mountain a bit, which landed me precisely behind the Bedouin camel hustlers. Perfect. Now I have camel dung to consider, too! It definitely took something awary from the proverbial mountain top experience.

Now I'm preparing for a three week trip to Ethiopia, where the naitonals are famous for their B.O. and their belief that the wind carries diseases--and subsequently keep the windows on their microbuses shut tight while bumping along unpaved roads. God with us.

The difficulty is that I did have my sights set on edging the honorable Secretary Clinton out of a job someday. I mean, all that's between me and her are 80 countries, 8 years in the White House, and Senate leadership, right? The problem is that I can't even begin to close the passport gap if I enter each new country with my head hanging out the window. And that's not even to speak of the diplomatic embarassment of having a carsick Sec. of State. At this point, I'll never be promoted past a lowly passport stamper in Siberia.

After my stomach ailments subsided on the top of Mt. Sinai (unfortunately not as the result of divine healing--I was still feeling a bit off all the way down the mountain, too), I was able to enjoy myself again on the flat, steady ground at Dahab. Dahab is a chill, beachside backpacker town on the Red Sea--just a quiet strip of blissful relaxation along crystal clear water, looking straight across the gulf to Saudi Arabia. Its main attraction is a row of floor pillows, endless fruit milkshakes, and hookahs. No crowds. No smog. No hassles. There are a few omnivorous cats happy to steal my toast from my plate, for sure, but at least these cats are the fat, happy, quiet kind--as opposed to their mangy, screechy Cairene counterparts. I can take it. And the clean air? Ah, my lungs were nearly singing with happiness. Alhamdulileh.

Now I'm back in Cairo, with only 10 days until the Walter fam arrives in my crowded, beloved city. Now we're just praying that there will be no sandstorms or stomach problems to color their first impression.

I'm roasting eggplants on the stove right now, so I'd better wrap up this blog post... with me in the kitchen, catastrophe is always looming right around the corner. Take care!