We're not sure if it was the po'boys, the oysters, or something else entirely, but four of the six of us at Ono Island ended up with food poisoning.

It was, put mildly, less than an ideal way to end the trip, and made the drive home slower going than usual, both because we had to stop more frequently and because the BYM was feeling ill enough for me to take over the driving.

So, there was no second or third swim in the bay, and I was feeling ooky before the others succumbed, so I took to my bed before dinnertime on the last night and missed out on the homemade pizza Bryce and Liz put together. *grumpf* That said, it had been the perfect vacation up until then -- long walks on the beaches, long-overdue letter-writing (along with some postcards, fic, and shreds of future poems), crocheting, and perfume sniff-arounds (I'd brought along a few BPAL imps, and one of the other women is a Francophile who's very knowledgeable about Guerlain and other vintage scents). Oh, and dark chocolate, good Glenfiddich, hot-from-the-fryer beignets, and three pounds of sweet, succulent shrimp... (we will not speak of the crab claws that smelled and tasted like old socks).

It's definitely a different part of the South, the Gulf. It's warmer; the high-rise condos, palm trees, and beach-house palettes never seem quite real to my inland eye; and Mardi Gras is a much bigger deal -- I saw listings for dozens of parades in The Mullet Wrapper, as well as a typo that delighted me no end (a writeup of a fundraiser populated by "Mardi Gras revilers" -- hee!).

And speaking of New Orleans - I happened upon Roy Blount Jr.'s Feet on the Street a the library a few weeks ago, and started in on it last night. It was published before Katrina, and it is very disconcerting reading pre-Flood talk about the Flood.

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I'm going to need more sleep and probably another dose of painkillers to get through the rest of today, and my in-box held more sad than glad tidings when I opened it earlier, but I got up in the middle of the night because I knew I wouldn't get back to sleep until I'd jotted down the new plot swerves I'd come up with for fic N, and I'm feeling good about the two sets of poems I'm keen to finish drafting this week, and the worship coordinator for this Sunday's service is sounding excited by my choice of topic (turns out he's a dancer too), and there is the ever present heap of work and avocational mayhem -- but none of it is due today, so first, it's back to bed. And that, I promise you, is a luxury I do not take for granted.