It's Not My Fault

Seriously, is it my fault that in Central America, they don't understand the concept of a sandwich? When you order a sandwich, it's supposed to come only with the things you said you wanted in it. Not so here.

When you order a sandwich in Central America, assume that it starts off with onion, tomato, lettuce, and some orange sauce that's kind of like Russian salad dressing. After that comes whatever you said you wanted in the sandwich. Alas, when I asked for a cheese sandwich, something I thought was the easiest thing in the world, I got a plate full of food that I wasn't supposed to eat.

I had dodged a bullet earlier last week, eating lettuce and not having a problem, so I figured that the warnings were overrated, kinda like not mixing drugs. If you wash down a tylenol with caffinated soda, you're not going to end up in the hospital. Boy was I wrong.

With my newfound confidence, I didn't hesitate to eat what was brought to me on Friday. Bad move. To be sure, it could've been much worse. I've heard horror stories from other travelers. My situation wasn't nearly that bad. Anyway, I ended up spending the weekend and Monday with one malady after the next. It started with minor stomach problems Friday. They continued into Saturday. Sunday a tooth ache and an ear ache kicked in. Monday I woke up sneezing. Now I can't say that all of those problems, most of which are now behind me, all started with the lettuce, but suffice it to say that ignoring warnings when it comes to food can only lead to trouble.