In the spring of 2016 I had the distinct honor and pleasure of traveling to Washington D.C. to congratulate two young women who were awarded full scholarships to study in Ireland at the universities of their choice. The scholarships were created and funded via a collaboration between Go Overseas and Education in Ireland, and I was thrilled to meet the contest winners in our nation’s capital. With one recipient being a study abroad student bound for University College Cork (where I was working at the time) and the other heading to the University of Limerick for a postgraduate degree (where I earned my MA in English degree from 2011-2012), I was chosen as the representative of these Irish universities. I would meet and greet the students and their parents, attend any scholarship-related events, and join the students on a tour of D.C. which would be filmed for a scholarship winners video.  

I want to pause the story for just a moment to add some necessary background information so that you can put yourself in my shoes as you read on. I was one of many people who had worked tirelessly to advocate for the creation and launch of these scholarship opportunities. As someone who was able to attend the college of my choice through scholarships and grants (to supplement my lovely collection of student loans) at the national, state, institutional, and local levels, I will always support initiatives that create pathways for students who may lack financial resources to pursue academic success.  I was proud not only to represent the Irish universities at these scholarship events, but also of the work my colleagues and I had put in to make these opportunities a reality. In short, I was excited for all of it...the speeches, the video, the meet and greet, the whole shebang. Which, as you can imagine, makes the tale that follows seem that much more unfortunate. A little bit funny now? Yes. Horrifically unpleasant then? Oh yeah. 

The day started off pretty normally. I woke up, went for a run (when in Washington, D.C. a run along the National Mall is an absolute must), grabbed coffee and a bagel, said goodbye to my wonderful Airbnb hosts (wonderful is not an overstatement and you will understand why later), and made my way to the designated meeting place to connect with the winners, their families, and my colleagues. It was a gorgeous day, I was in my favorite emerald green Ireland dress (I stand by my stereotypical fashion choice to represent Ireland), and was thrilled to begin the day’s activities. 

The morning part of the tour began with photos in front of the Irish Embassy. Our conversations centered upon Limerick and Cork. The first part of the itinerary went as smoothly as any of us could have hoped, and everyone was in high spirits heading into the luncheon. Speeches were given, awards were presented, and the atmosphere was nothing short of jovial. My study abroad comrades maintained their lofty spirits as we embarked upon the adventures planned for the second half of the day, but mine began to drop as we embarked upon our afternoon adventures. But why?

To this day I swear it was the chicken cordon bleu, though I don’t know if I’ll ever know exactly what felled me. Thankfully, as I grew more and more ill, it became very clear that I was the only poor soul impacted by this perilous condition. This was a small comfort as the beginning of our video walking tour marked the beginning of what would end up being my 24 hour battle against the wretched chicken cordon bleu (allegedly) and its partner in crime: food poisoning. 

My mom once told me that if you have to question whether or not you’ve ever had food poisoning, then you absolutely haven’t had food poisoning. I didn’t understand her very basic summation of the food poisoning experience...until I did. And, oh my God, during that walking tour did I ever wish that I could go back to my place of blissful ignorance. 

I imagine many of you may be under the impression that my next strategic move would be to take myself out of the equation entirely. After all, I had a perfectly legitimate reason to excuse myself from the remainder of the events, all of which were more fun and less “official” in nature. Sadly, though I am an intelligent human being, I am also an incredibly stubborn human being. Needless to say, I persevered...and began the misadventure that will forever be cemented in my mind.

My strategy for finishing the tour in one piece was simple: stop at every opportune moment to run into each and every Starbucks, McDonalds, Burger King, Dunkin Donuts, even a Hyatt Regency along the way to give in to my body’s need to expel every ounce of food in its stomach. As the events of the day came to a close, following all of our goodbyes, I raced home to my Airbnb in the most anxiety-filled Uber ride of my life. (To clarify, the driver was excellent, I just feared for the safety of his car.) I then spent the next 8 hours of my life in excruciating pain, cursing my food nemesis.

Amidst all of this, what I remember most about those 8 hours (other than the obvious) is the kindness of my Airbnb hosts. I recall rushing past them, sprinting up the stairs towards my living area without uttering more than a quick, “Feeling sick…so sorry!”. They could have simply left me alone without another word. I was, after all, just a temporary guest in their home: someone they met the day before for a brief conversation and greeting. Instead, they texted me asking if there was anything I needed. They assured me that they would help in any way they could. They sent messages to check on me every few hours. Moreover, when I finally decided the worst was over and headed back to my bedroom to get some rest, I found a tray outside the door with warm broth, a six pack of Gatorade, and a note reminding me that they were just a call away if I needed anything at all.

The next morning, I was greeted once again with a kind note, as well as several bottles of water for my trip to the airport. I cleaned my room, wrote a thank you note of my own, and gave my bathroom a deep clean that a former West Alton Marina summer worker could be proud of. My hosts were already at work, so I placed my key under the above-mentioned thank you note, and left for my flight (which was its own adventure on a healing stomach, but that’s another story). I sent them a message upon arriving home, received a kind reply, left a much deserved excellent review (and, to my pleasant surprise, received my own good guest review in return), and that was the last I heard from them.

Sometimes sharing a feeling of home with someone, or receiving that feeling yourself, isn’t about making “the big gesture” (like we frequently see in movies). It’s not always about accomplishing a singularly impressive feat, or completing a spectacular, magnanimous task. Through their simple acts of kindness, my hosts in Washington, D.C. made me feel safe, secure, and cared for during a very uncomfortable and stressful situation. I will never forget their generosity and goodwill, and how a tray of Gatorade and broth made me feel at home.