I am a lazy traveller; yes, I am one of those people on a trip with friends who ends up being last to know our itinerary; I am the kind of traveller who plans tomorrow’s itinerary and routes the night before. The most preparation I have ever done a week before my flight is pore through Google Maps and highlight the most notable and most photogenic landmarks to shoot. But I guess even that is some sort of planning, albeit the haphazard nature. But what happens when plans fall through?
It was the weekend before Easter and I was stoked to embark on my second solo adventure. It was the first time that I knew I was going to hang out with gays in Marseille (that will be a separate post) and I could barely contain my excitement. I caught an Uber to London Victoria to catch my Gatwick Express to the airport at 0500hrs. Groggy but hanging onto consciousness by a thread, I took the initiative to chat up my Uber driver. Tl;dr, he is a professional cricketer with Uber on the side, and he recommended that I should Uber from my home directly to Gatwick. It would cost £50 (give or take), more than the combined £34 I already spent, so I declined his offer. But I would soon come to regret that.
As I stepped out of my Uber, I soon realised that all the train services from London Victoria were down. I was hopelessly stranded with a Chinese couple, a Spanish family and another British backpacker. Whether by luck or by design, there was a long line of black cabs surreptitiously circling around the taxi bay. I asked for a quote on a journey to Gatwick airport and got an offer for £120. What a steal! I had a flashback to Kevin Carter’s Pulitzer prize-winning shot (The Vulture and the Little Girl), metaphorically it wasn’t too far off. Instead I took another Uber instead out of indignation, waging a futile war against capitalism. That costed me 88 quid, but at least I won the battle.
The flight from Gatwick to Marseille was a 2-hour breeze. It passed by exactly how I envision most terrible first dates to pan out: boring and forgettable save a cute air steward at the front of the cabin. Between reading my book and catching a glimpse of the cutie, I did not anticipate that tragedy was literally right round the corner. I am certain everyone knows of the mobile airstair you descend to get onto the tarmac. But did you know that there is a mini-step before the landing?
Well, neither did I. My left foot struck that sweet spot between those two steps and it gave way, twisting it beyond acceptable human limits. As I crashed spectacularly to the floor, the pain did not come, no sir that came way later; what really hit me was hot shame. Especially if you have the hots for the cute Flight Service Manager who happened to be right behind you during your 10 seconds of shame. I recovered my composure as well as any remnants of dignity, and tried walking it off (also to gain as much distance as possible). Situation contained for now, except for 2 things: 1. my tell-tale hobble was a dead-ringer, and 2. the pain was only getting worse by the minute.
Within 10 minutes, I could only walk 10m before having to stop because I could no longer bear weight on the left. My god, that was a great start. Hobbling to passport control, I was overtaken by the last-disembarking passengers, a lovely elderly British couple. They joked, “No football for you in Marseille? Oh no, you wanted to hike to Calanques? That’s a shame, we heard it is really beautiful...” At least I was low-key flattered they thought I was fit enough to play footie.
I genuinely thought that I would have to fall out from doing all the touristy things I had planned before. It does not take a medic to know that the treatment of a sprained ankle is to rest up, apply ice, compress the area and keep it elevated (or RICE for short). However, it is also well known that the worst patients are doctors themselves. Also, those who know me can testify that my FOMO (fear of missing out) is very real. Who travels to Marseille and does not take in the sights of this beautiful coastal city? It was a no-brainer to double down, hook myself up with an ankle guard, copious amounts of paracetamol and ibuprofen, and a delicious double-scoop ice cream cone to tide me over.
Most of us know to take 2 tablets of paracetamol (500mg) and ibuprofen (200mg) when we get the ouchies, and that was what I did. What I did not know was that a regular tablet of paracetamol in France was 1000mg (and ibuprofen, 400mg). Quick maffs will tell you that 2 x 1000mg is double of 2 x 500mg of paracetamol; it also means that I was double dosing. This had nothing to do with my utter lack of mastery of the French language but everything to do with me being the occasional idiot. It was clearly evident when I opened the box of paracetamol and saw that they only gave one strip instead of the usual two. I thought, Goddamn the French are really stingy, €1,45 for half the amount?
The first sign appeared the next day when my stomach was growling at me while I was settling in bed. But that did not set off any alarms for me. I only realised this elementary error when I woke up on Day 3 and was about to take my 5th consecutive double-dose when I saw 1000mg on the foil wrap of paracetamol. That cannot be correct, I thought, followed up with a one-two punch of Oh shit, I really f***ed up & I might really die after all these years of stupidity. In the end, it took me a while to get over myself (or rather my dramaticism); it takes probably 40 times more paracetamol to really end up dead. The silver lining, in retrospect, explains why I felt absolutely grand while hiking on all fours for 1.5 hours each way in Calanques… at least I’d die ticking something off my bucket list.
I still have zero clue how I managed to survive this long in my life given of all the potentially fatal, stupid mistakes I am fully capable of doing. This is just one of the many I have done before, but save those for another day when I feel like writing them up. But I hope I brought a smile to all of you who bothered to read the entirety of this story. Have a good day and hope to catch you in my next story!
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