SOUTHWORDS

“What did I miss?” I ask through a yawn and a stretch. This is a common refrain from me. I can sleep on any and every mode of transportation. From the outside it may look like sleeping just about anywhere, just about any time, is my superpower. In some ways, that isn’t untrue.

The reality is slightly more complicated. I’m prone to motion sickness. Not a little bit prone. More like projectile . . . you know what . . . prone. If I’m not in the driver’s seat or, at the very least, in the passenger’s seat — with a cautious driver — you can forget about it. Even being still and looking at something at the wrong angle can make my head spin. State fairs and Tilt-a-Whirls are sworn enemies. The very thought brings on waves of nausea. 

The trouble is that I love to travel. So what’s a girl to do? 

Dramamine has been a normal part of my life since long before I was able to spell it. Road trips, plane rides, boat rides, they’re brutal without it. Those tiny little pills worked wonders keeping me from losing my breakfast, lunch and dinner. The only downside is that they make me groggy.

I say downside because, to be honest, in my altered state I’m not the best traveling companion. My sister dubbed my car-induced sleeping “carcalepsy.”

The last big trip I went on was to Guatemala with my boyfriend, Nate. The country was beautiful to look at . . . absolute chaos to drive through.

So, naturally, we ditched the idea of renting a car and opted for “efficient and cost-effective” public transportation: a bus. That’s how we ended up on what I can only describe as a rollercoaster on wheels, careening through the jungles on a journey from Panajachel to Guatemala City. We were advised the trip could take anywhere from three to six hours depending on potholes, washouts, traffic and whether or not a rogue cow decided to stand in the middle of the road like a crossing guard.

I knew the only way for me to get through this was to sleep. I took an extra bit of my medicine, found a neck angle that wouldn’t paralyze me, and willed myself into a bus-induced slumber.

The roads were winding, bumpy and full of holes big enough to swallow a Volkswagen whole. Slamming on the brakes was a frequent occurrence. Passing slower vehicles, I’ve been told, was like an Indiana Jones sequel, causing even Nate to hold his breath.

During a rest stop, I barely opened one eye when I saw Nate hop off for a snack. For a moment I considered following him but realized that food might give me energy, and energy meant awareness, and awareness meant I’d have to experience the ride. No thank you.

After six hours we pulled into Guatemala City, and I woke up dazed, victorious and the opposite of nauseous, whatever that is. As we de-bussed, Nate gave a little wave to a couple that had been sitting a few rows up from us. Apparently, the three of them had bonded over our mutual survival.

After we were out of earshot from our fellow travelers and walking toward our hotel, Nate started chuckling.

“What?” I asked, rubbing my eyelids and trying to remember what continent I was on.

He scratched his head and said, “So, uh, that couple I waved to? They’re from Germany. Super cool. Thought the ride was nuts.” I nodded. Of course they did. Who wouldn’t?

“Yeah, well,” Nate continued, barely containing his laughter, “they also asked me if I drugged you.”

I blinked. “WHAT?” I had apparently slept through my own kidnapping.

“At first I thought it was a joke but they seemed serious. They couldn’t believe you slept through all of that,” he said motioning behind us. “ I had to tell them I didn’t drug my girlfriend. She drugged herself . . . with Dramamine.” 

Poor Nate having to plead his innocence to complete strangers. Worst case of carcalepsy ever.