We Were All Food Poisoned!

Although my trip to Italy, so far, has been fantastic, blog posts about how beautiful everything is, how great the food tastes, and how wonderful the people will get boring very quickly. So, I'm writing about something a little less pleasant.

Throughout the year, we have about seven weeks worth of trips to various regions; they call these trips "stages" (pronounced stahj, its French), and they are intended to be food and culture safaris: the time to eat, drink, experience a new region of Europe, and learn by doing.

Our first trip took place almost two weeks ago, and they took us to Puglia, the heel of the boot that is Italy. The place was beautiful: we walked through ancient groves of olive trees, swam in cool water while gazing out towards a hazy sea, and we drank Prosecco in a hilltop town, sitting in an outdoor cafe with a view of the rolling, golden valley, feeling the warm breeze rush over us. I'll never forget these moments, but I'll also remember the trip as a death-march of cold cuts.

Every meal was a big occasion: multiple courses of meats, cheeses, pasta, more meat. Often, lunch looked the same: cured meat, cheese, bread, wine, and lardo (cured pork fat). One night, we ate seafood: fish salad, raw fish, fish with homemade pasta, fried fish, and then fruit and dessert. The next night: appetizers of fried dough, focaccia with greens, frittata, cured meats, two kinds of homemade pasta, stewed horse, boiled octopus, and then fruit and dessert. And the whole time, the wine kept coming.

Halfway through the trip, we all felt like our systems couldn't keep up with this much food and wine. We ate prunes and yogurt for breakfast. Some sought out fresh fruit; I bought myself some tomatoes. It didn't seem to be working. We all felt slow, lethargic; I imagined myself to be getting gout.



Something had to give. The center could not hold. On the last day we broke down. Two of the girls got sick early in the morning: they looked pale, droopy, and very unhappy. In two hours they fell into vomiting, and we altered course. Our trip leader, Alessandra, took us to a beachtown, set us free to wander for the afternoon, and got these poor girls a hotel room.

I fell victim next. Thinking I was just a little hungover, I decided to go for a swim, which usually helps me feel better. I swam for a while and then sprawled out on the beach to sunbathe. It must have been funny to the friends I was with, because it looked like I was having a great time, and all of a sudden, on the walk back into town, I bent over the railing of the staircase and barfed my guts out into the creek below. After my second puke, Alessandra took me to the hotel room with the other girls, and I took my place with the fallen.

Over the course of the next two days, at least a quarter of us became acutely ill; and almost everyone got queasy stomaches, headaches, and a general malaise. The weekend we got back, everyone hibernated in their rooms. Some fasted, others caught up on fruits and vegetables. For a day and a half, all I could keep down was white rice and gatorade.

But now we're all better, and the next stage starts on Monday. Studying food is intense.