Street food

I love Mexican street food. This cool, hard fact is fully illustrated by my dangerous, cheap taquito overindulgence last week on my adventure in Pie de la Cuesta. I have always considered myself special, thinking that being here 7 months and eating whatever I fancied and seeing no repercussions made me some kind of super hero. I now know the price of living dangerously.

When the sickness started to kick in, it was Friday afternoon and I had a deadline; I forced myself to publish a Zimbabwe-bound module, almost vomiting with each sharpie mark, "Seed Business, Module 3." As soon as I finished, what seemed at the time a herculean task, I ran home with my second sprite of the day and proceeded to moan for hours. Sure, there was some walking in circles, some crying, some physical upchuck, and some calling of my colleagues to find out who could take me to the hospital.

Upon finding my way to a Texcoco doctor (thank you, Pancho), the diagnosis shattered my theory about my street food immunity, which was previously underpinned by the argument that I grew up with dirty siblings and lived for years with hippies who did not fully wash dishes. Bust.

For those street food lovers out there discouraged by my story, fret not. Merely stay away from sandwiches in bus-stations.