My Five Days in Hell, Germany

I’m staring at myself in the mirror as my Airbnb host scrubs baking soda in my mouth with a toothbrush. Tears are streaming down my face. 

“Stop crying.” 

I wipe my eyes with the palm of my hand and grab the toothbrush. It is stained with blood. This is only the start of the most horrific and comical day of my adult life.

I felt fine when I boarded the plane. Maybe a little under the weather, but nothing too worrisome. I fell asleep easily. However, when I woke up about two hours into the flight, there was a painful throbbing in the back right corner of my mouth. My lymph nodes were hard as a rock. 

As soon as I landed in Amsterdam, I looked up “how to know if you have throat cancer.” After extensive research (five Google searches), I was convinced that I, Ellie Lynch, was dying. I texted my best friend something cryptic like “I don’t feel well, thanks for always being there” and then a ton of unnecessary emojis. This was how I wanted to be remembered.

Unsure of what to do when dying in an airport, I settled on taking ibuprofen and buying an expensive juice that promised to “reset my gut microbiome.” I just had to get on my flight to Dusseldorf. Maybe when I arrived, I’d feel better.

I had been planning this trip since August. As soon as school started, I got a job as a waitress. I would work over thirty hours on a good week. I saved everything.

Okay, not everything. But mostly everything.

My original plan was to travel alone through southern Germany, meet up with my friend Kavi, visit the Black Forest, and then travel to Belgium and Amsterdam to visit other friends. I planned everything meticulously and booked all my train tickets and hostels in advance.

I did not feel any better when I landed in Dusseldorf. Actually, I felt worse. It was a cold, cloudy day, and my boots were giving me blisters. It seemed like everything was closed. A man tried to pickpocket me, and I had to sprint away. For a split second, I considered just giving him all my money so I didn’t have to run.

I dragged my feet to the Rhine. Then I feel asleep in a Starbucks. Yay, travel! 

I took more ibuprofen and caught my train to Cologne.

Cologne was the opposite of Dusseldorf. It was sunny and bustling with people. The ibuprofen was turning the throbbing to a dull ache. Maybe everything would be alright after all. 

I made my way to the hostel. It was on the third floor of a building that was under construction. It took me about thirty minutes just to figure out how to get inside, and then another twenty to hoist my luggage up all the stairs. 

Panting, I checked into my shared room for the night. I met a girl from Australia who told me intimate details about her love life. After talking for two hours, I realized we still didn’t know each other’s names. 

I decided it was time to explore the city. I bundled up and took the tram to one of Cologne’s famous Christmas markets. I downed a mug of glühwein and watched as the sky got darker and darker. I took a long stroll through the quiet, winding streets of the city. People were in pairs, huddling closely like a Norman Rockwell painting. Soon, my mouth began throbbing again. I held my jaw in my hands. If everyone looked like “Home for Christmas,” I looked like “The Scream.”

The next morning, after a disastrous hour trying to wave down a taxi, I met my friend Kavi on a train to Heidelberg. I did not tell him the news of my impending death. I took more ibuprofen. At this point, I didn’t know what would take me first: cancer or liver failure.

We rolled our suitcases to the Airbnb. Kavi and I introduced ourselves briefly to our Airbnb hosts before heading out to explore. We ate our way through every Christmas market we encountered, drank lots of bier, and skipped around the city looking unapologetically touristy. Soon, I forgot my troubles once again. Move over, Norman.

 We travelled back in high spirits. Our hosts had prepared a vegan meal for us! And there was wine from Macedonia! I might even go so far as to say that we were…vibing. We headed to bed – we had a big day tomorrow. I felt fat and happy. Maybe I was dying, but at least I was enjoying myself. I went to sleep smiling.

 I don’t remember what I dreamt about, but whatever it was, I wish it had never ended. I woke up gripping the right side of my face as if I were a pregnant mother in her last trimester. I got up and locked myself in the bathroom to cry. This was the most pain I’d ever felt. I would rather have menstrual cramps every day of my life than experience that level of pain again. (Okay, maybe not. God, if you’re reading this, please know that I am exaggerating.) I tried drinking some water, but I couldn’t swallow it, so I just leaned over the sink and spit it out. 

These are the unfortunate events that led me here, ten minutes later, crying once again in the same bathroom. This time, however, I am accompanied by my Airbnb host who is now claiming to be Joe Biden’s former dentist. He tells me that my face is swollen and that I have an infection in the back of my mouth. He says that the only way I will get better is by scrubbing the infection until it bleeds.

I thought the pain couldn’t get worse. 

Let me tell you that nothing compares to the pain of a stranger scrubbing your mysterious mouth infection with a toothbrush until it bleeds. The only thing that measures up is maybe the pain of knowing that your trip to Germany has been ruined. (Does this sound extremely privileged? It does, doesn’t it. Oof.)

The next twelve hours consisted of me crying in a German train, me crying in a German hospital, and me crying in another German hospital. The whole time, Kavi carried my suitcase and spoke to the doctors because he literally knows every language. He is Smart and I am Dumb. I was misdiagnosed with mono – or, “kissing disease” as the doctor repeatedly told me. I insisted I didn’t have mono. He didn’t take me seriously. He thought I was just some dumb American girl with a low pain tolerance and a particular affinity for kissing. I gained nothing from the entire day. All they gave me were some ineffective throat lozenges. (T-shirt idea: I Went To Germany and All I Got Were These Lousy Lozenges.) 

As we left the hospital, we spoke to one last doctor. I convinced him to prescribe me antibiotics. I survived another day and a half before switching my flight. I couldn’t push through any longer. The trip I was looking forward to all semester had officially been ruined.  

When I returned home, I saw many doctors. They all told me that I was right, I didn’t have “kissing disease.” I had a severe, acute bacterial infection in my mouth and should get my wisdom teeth removed immediately. I spent the rest of winter break lounging in my pajamas, eating mashed potatoes, and taking Percocet with two enormous holes in my mouth. My family felt so bad for me, they gave me all the attention I could ever want. It was wonderful.