July 3, 2018

Palma de Mallorca, Spain. October, 2010

In all my years of traveling and eating, I have only twice encountered any kind of stomach problems. Once, a case of Montezuma’s Revenge was the result of my foolish decision to opt for iced tea over canned soda at a lunch counter in the Mexican border town of Nogales, an hour south of Tucson. I spent the next two days pretty much moaning and staggering around Simon and David’s house and consuming nothing but (American) water. The only other unfortunate occasion was in Barcelona, this time, I believe, my ill-timed case of Mediterranean Tummy the result of having to try the Mallorcan specialty sobrasada, shown here. A paté-like sausage that’s cured by drying in its casing, it was perhaps an unwise choice at a hole-in-the-wall workers’ restaurant far off the tourist trail in this island city. I’d wanted just a taste. Instead, these three sizable red flags appeared and I didn’t heed the warning. And neither did Jay. Oh, well, live and learn. Twice.

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