Koren food and coffee combo

Last night was not a good eating night. Because I go to my economics class right after work, I usually have dinner at about 5:30. For my dining pleasure, I take my meals at the food court at the Westfield Center, in other words, the mall food court. Sure, this food court is a cut above the rest. There is no Hot Dog on a Stick. There is no Sbarro's Italian Eatery. There is no Panda Express. Though there are teenagers, they are outnumbered by the less obnoxious older tourists, students, and working people.

I like having my pre-class dinner because I have a variety of options (almost all of them not disgusting and not too unhealthy) and, because the dining section is so large, I can usually find a spot, tucked away from the rest of the crowd, where I can eat in peace and doing some reading.

I went to the Korean food place and ordered the barbeque chicken plate, which comes with rice, clear noodles, brocolli, and kim chi. I carried my tray over to a table for eight, which was away from the other diners, and empty. I pulled out my New Yorker and started in.

As I was eating and reading happily alone, a teenaged girl pulled up the chair two seats away and across the table from mine. She was eating ice cream with fresh peaches. Then, she called over to her friend who sat down across from me and they started chatting. What time do you get off work? Is that your dinner? You don't like peaches? What are your Halloween plans? Can you get me in for free? What time do you get off work? You've asked me that already. On and on, until they finally left about 15 minutes later.

I finished my meal, which was too much food for one meal but I was really hungry so I ate it all and then regretted it. Though it was tasty and filled my stomach, it wasn't amazing, but I wasn't expecting amazing from the mall. The grilled chicken was a little too tough and a little too cold. I didn't get as much brocolli as I wanted, though I did get three little cups of kim chi. It was a meal that did its most basic job.

I then went to get a small coffee from Peet's. Usually, I don't drink coffee in the evening; I have no need to. But, after the last economics class where I was struggling to stay awake and could see my hand drooping as I was making a failed attempt at taking notes, I had a need. I wanted to not be an embarassment and fall asleep in class. So, I drank my coffee.

When I got home from class, I knew something was wrong. I still felt full and could still taste the chicken and kim chi in my mouth even though I ate hours ago and followed it with coffee and gum. I think the combination of barbeque chicken, broccoli, kim chi, and coffee, along with the sheer amount of food I scarfed down, wasn't sitting well in my stomach, so I threw up. It was not pleasant. That'll be the last time I have that combination of food.

Spaceland sickness

There has only been one time in my life when the real fear of possible death (or a visit to the hospital, at the very least) crossed my mind. It was a little more than a year ago and I was on a plane flying to Philadelphia to catch a connecting flight to the Virgin Islands. I was traveling alone (as it tends to be), I had been sick for the past several days, and I was overcome with sudden cold chills, sweat beading on my forehead, and the need to vomit. As the passenger sitting next to me was sleeping under his blanket in the darkened cabin, I thought I was going to die. Should I press the button for assistance? Should I pull out my barf bag? Would they land the plane and rush me to the hospital? Just as quickly as the nausea and panic came, it went, and I was left to wonder what the hell just happened.

Since then, I’ve had a couple of encounters when I had to throw up, but none so pronounced and none so full of fear that something was really wrong with me, until last night.

The evening started innocently enough. Jeanne and I met Karen, Gabe, and some other people at the Silver Mug. After a couple of vodka tonics, some great and not-so-great karaoke renditions of “Paint It Black,” “Under the Bridge,” “I Want You to Want Me,” and “Under Pressure,” being called Gabby throughout the night be an older Latino man, and a couple of Vietnamese spring rolls, Karen, Jeanne, and I drove over to Spaceland to see Andy’s band play. (Note on Andy: He was a substitute teacher for my 12^th grade English class and was the one to introduce me to Haruki Murakami.)

We were late and the band had already gone on so we ordered more drinks, ran into yet another RHS alum, and played pool with some random men. Andy and I ate some Chips Ahoy cookies from a bag that we saw on the counter and had some cigarettes. Some man told me that I had nice lips and that he didn’t want me to take it the wrong way; I told him thanks, that I was leaving, and to have a good night.

After losing at pool, we left and decided that food was what was needed. Andy directed us to a Mexican food thing (I don’t know exactly what to call it since it wasn’t a Taco truck, it wasn’t a restaurant, it wasn’t anything I had seen before—everything was outdoors, kitchen and all, and all under a tent of some sort) on Santa Monica at Hawthorne. I ordered a carne asada quesadilla, Karen and Andy ordered Cubano sandwiches, and I can’t quite remember what Jeanne ordered although I am tempted to say that it was a chimichanga (it was something fried, I am sure of).

Because it was near freezing, we drove over to the house where Andy was house-sitting. We watched The Warriors as we ate and as cats climbed on me (for someone who isn’t too fond of pets, cats somehow are drawn to me). We ate and I was happy, for a little while.

Then, it came. Nausea. The feeling of utter sickness. The desire to want to rip your insides out and dump them down the drain.

We drove home and I rushed to the bathroom. I lied in bed trying to fall asleep, trying to find any comfortable position. But, each time I moved, I felt that churn in my stomach creeping up my throat. I lied there and wondered how many more hours until morning and if an ambulance would have to be called for me. I wondered if they’d have to pump my stomach. I wondered what was it that made me feel so ill. The drinks, the cigarettes, the quesadilla, the Vietnamese spring rolls? I guess I’d never know.