A Case for Clean Sheets and Cautionary Consumption

In college, a fellow Badger named Julia Arenstam created an online repository, nay, a blog, similar to what I am attempting here; a sharing space let's call it, or better yet, I'll share it with you and you can go experience it yourself: The Dirty Suitcase, a muse of the mishaps of the college-aged generation of travelers. A compilation of comedic calamities, from the "aha-moment" narratives to nauseating misfortunes, I reveled in reading these "dirty" stories. In fact, I really owe it to Julia for inspiring my writing. She managed to make a blog so relative and comfortable for the traveler, the student, the womanly wanderer. In a world of increasingly edgy, hip, overly-indulgent travel influencers, pages, people and sites, The Dirty Suitcase served as a Land of Misfit Toys: charming, sympathetic and real.

This leads me to what I share now. My own Dirty Suitcase Scenario. I've got a few, and plan on sharing them, but this one is a fun one featuring my friend Cole and a bar crawl in Split, Croatia. I still cringe a little bit when I think back on it...

Split is a fascinating place. Diocletian's Palace encapsulates a life layout of corridors, where people-watching is an accepted activity, loose Croatian tongues swap greetings and phone conversations, and a never-ending maze of streets covered in cobblestone force you to pay attention to your path. Its charming landscape flanks the Adriatic with multi-million dollar yachts lining the gemstone blue waterfront overlooking café umbrellas dotting the open street. You have the power of Google - use the power. See for yourself.

This was the summer of 2015 at the end of the summer term of Spring Hill's Italy Center program based in Bologna. That's another place with more stories for another time. We were on the finishing stretch of the trip, a week-long excursion across the Adriatic to do in-person experiential learning of Bosnia-Herzegovina and Croatia, applying what we learned in our little Italian classroom to the discussions and persons we met. It is filled with memories that are tattooed on my brain and I doubt they will ever leave me. Men jumping from a bridge into the crystal clear water of Mostar. Brandy in mesmerizing glass bottles and lamb on a spit. Salep and the adhan echoing across the valleys. Inevitable history engrained in streets and signs and faces. Tough conversations, burek, and mountainous green oasis.

Many planned to return to Bologna before departing for the States, the desire to be home for a hot shower, parents helping with laundry, and a moment of peace before another year on the Hill. I planned on meeting my parents in Bad Ragaz, Switzerland. A treatment at the natural baths accompanied by fresh, hot, delicious pomme frites and Alpine air. So instead of hopping back on the frigid ferry that brought us there (anyone from that trip can tell you it was horribly cold), my friend Cole and I stayed on in Split a few more days before parting ways. Why not? We got here with the program, had all the gear we needed, and Split wasn't just charming and Mediterranean-like, it was a party. We planned for this, and we were excited.

Everywhere you went in Split, bar crawls and yacht parties and foam parties and light parties and discos and clubs were advertised on flyers and through chatty, charismatic promoters on the streets. We spent a few nights there, discovering the city both on our own and together, meeting up with the son of one of our hosts through the program, Filip, at a local wine and cheese shop he worked at. Another day, we bummed it on the beach, mirroring our European and American compatriots basking in the sun. Finding another public bathing spot with a vivid and rocky underwater world, I wished I had brought more of my snorkeling gear. I climbed up endless staircases for impeccable city-wide views and stared in envy at the long string of seaside wonders. With much relaxation came an itch for festivities, of course.

Cole had found an affordable bar crawl one evening. A jazzed, English-speaking promoter welcomed us into a darkly-lit room, with red lights illuminating corners and faces. Honestly, it was as if someone had plucked Hayley's Bar in Mobile and gave it a European facelift with a forced-American activity schedule. Beer pong tables were out, waves of excitement reached us from flip-cup tables, the floor slightly sticky and yeasty from spilled libations. The aesthetics are the most vivid of my memories. To be honest, the rest of this night is a blur, and I would have to pass the talking stick to Cole to finish. What I do recall is...well...regrettable.

I remember playing beer pong, with interest dying off as we were getting ready to leave. I know we went to another bar. Do I remember? Not at all. Thank you for you, Cole, for at this point in the evening, I don't have much left. A flash of memory includes vomiting cheap liquor and beer in the classiest of places - in front of those multi-million dollar yachts on the waterfront. Never in my entire life have I had a worse hangover than that next morning (well, afternoon, by the time I arose). Waking up solo in the hostel bunk bed, Cole had gone off to explore the city, seemingly immune to our previous shenanigans and rightfully winning the title of Absolute Tank in my hungover mind. As I worked on sipping water and walking slowly throughout the city, my stomach uneasy after my early-afternoon shower (in which I puked again) and loud noises assaulting my soul, I felt my time in Split was complete. My flight out was the next day, I had a broken suitcase to tout to another country, and I didn't dare consider even one glass of the Adriatic's finest wine.

Fast-forward to life on the Hill. Visiting Switzerland with my parents was a breeze and well-needed after my regrettable raucous revelry. I had just begun to get settled into my new dorm with Amelie over in Portier, just off of Spring Hill's campus. But no matter how normal things had returned, I had this itch. Not an itch to travel, a literal ITCH - all over. It started on my legs and arms, and I'd viciously scratch until my skin was raw and red. Nothing worked - not hot showers, not soothing cream, not aloe. 

Finally, it was time to go to a doctor. Off to the dermatologist I went. Queue the questions - where had I been? What had I done? New products? Dietary changes? Out came the scalpel - scrape, scratch, poke, scratch. "We'll get back to you in a few days." The itches continued and got worse. *Ding* came in the email a few days later, as promised, and *ring* came in the call explaining things further - scabies. Me? "What in the hell is scabies?!"

Even being the daughter of a doctor, I wasn't sure what the hell scabies was. It sounded wicked, like some malicious cousin of rabies. I won't say it's worse than rabies, but it's nearly as appalling. Essentially, tiny mites had made their way into my skin and laid their eggs, multiplying and living beneath my skin. The most likely culprit? The hostel in Split. Infamous for frequenting shared spaces due to it's many host options, I had likely picked it up when I was deep in my drunk coma on my bunk after the pub crawl, the one night I didn't take time to tuck myself into my sanitary sleep sack and went straight for the thing mattress. 

Easily passed on to others, I had not only infected Harry, my boyfriend at the time, but our entire dormitory apartment. Amelie moved over to TJ's down the hall, her boyfriend's room being a safe haven, and Harry and I packed up every conspicuously placed pillow, throw, towel, and blanket into bags. Suffocation was the only cure for our material goods, while we had the pleasure of coating ourselves neck to toes in thick, clinical-smelling cream to suffocate the mites under our skin. Talk about feeling like a human petri-dish...

Learned lessons from this trip include avoiding bar crawls (though I'm sure Cole might protest that statement) and vetting your hostel...or at least using a sleep sack.