I'm going to Thailand and this is my travel kit (part two)

Day 4. From my bed, through the huge window, I gaze out at the striking Bangkok skyline . Our fourth day of travel has just dawned . I've had little rest last night: I've gotten up three times to go to the bathroom in a hurry due to serious stomach problems. I'm not hungry, but I do have cramps that come and go at a bearable rate. I certainly don't intend to stay still , nor will this abdominal condition ruin our vacation, so we set off and see what happens.

I eat a light and sensible breakfast, even though everything looks very appetizing. Then we head to the Chatuchak market, which is about the size of 18 football fields combined and has about 15,000 stalls. It's hot, and the business is promising. Given the reasonable doubts about my excessive peristalsis, I slip three or four Fortasec (loperamide) pills into my pocket just in case. The dosage is simple: a diarrheal bowel movement equal to taking one tablet, until it takes effect, but don't go overboard (more than eight a day can cause serious cardiorespiratory problems). The ones I brought are Flash, or orodispersible, also known in our trade as "oral freeze-dried." They dissolve quickly upon contact with saliva, making them easy to administer, especially for people with severe swallowing difficulties. Also for a traveler short of water, I think, as I walk past countless stalls selling absolutely everything. I'm glad I brought it in my first aid kit because I don't see myself being successful in a Bangkok pharmacy asking for loperamide.

The morning passes among stalls, vendors, tourists, and a stifling, humid heat . I'm learning to calculate the time of day according to the rings of sweat growing on my T-shirt. It must be noon now. We pass a street lined with hundreds of food stalls where the spicy smell is intense and unwavering. A good test for my digestive system, which responds with a cramp in protest. In the last hour, the pangs have worsened and threaten to make me go to the nearest bathroom, and it's hard to know where one is in this tangle of stalls and tourists. Another abdominal pain doubles me over, followed by another. I fear the worst in a few minutes, so I take a flash and take it. I could use a Coca-Cola, I think, because of the popular wisdom that Coca-Cola is as good for unclogging your toilet as it is for curing dyspepsia and other digestive ailments. I stop at a kiosk and a guy makes me one with a very peculiar device that freezes it instantly. Then he pours it into a plastic cup with ice and a straw. I take a sip and my Santa reprimands me. "Be careful with that ice," he says. I end up throwing it away, resigned.

An hour later, my tummy is no longer grumbling . I'm happy when we pass the area where they sell animals. The smell is pungent, reminding me of the animal shelter at the university . There's everything: from reptiles and worms to adorable cats begging for cuddles. My opponent gets carried away, but I don't let her pet any of them. It's quite sad to see them confined, to be honest.

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I'm going to Thailand and this is my travel kit.

Dr. Rafael Hernández Estefanía

After lunch (it did me good) we visited Chinatown . There isn't much of a contrast with the rest of the city, except for the language everything is written in and the typography of the signs in shops and stores. If Bangkok is full of street food stalls , Chinatown has five times as many. I can't understand the sheer number of food on offer, and I don't know if it justifies the demand. The hygienic conditions at most stalls are deplorable . At least they don't deceive you, since they cook right in front of the public and you can see what it is; no one forces you to eat it. In many restaurants in our country, if you go into the kitchen and see the reality, you're in for a surprise, since the conditions may be worse than those of these kiosks. And no one thinks about it.

Day 5. Early morning for the transfer to Ko Samui . The traffic is light but not frequent. My stomach pain is gone, and I'm living a normal life. We land in an incredible airport with no walls . The wooden ceiling gives an idyllic feel. It's all vegetation while we collect our bags. Enjoy the tropical climate.

We settle into our hotel . It's incredible how friendly everyone is. They smile as often as a Westerner uses their lips to protest the slightest thing. Smiling is very important. According to my wife, a smile can take you anywhere. "You don't need Google Translate or hand gestures," she adds. "And you don't need a credit card either," I add. We have dinner by the sea , with a gentle breeze that comforts us. How important it is to disconnect from your work, your routine, your problems, your bad memories, and the anxiety of anticipation every now and then . Now, thinking that you have to work, strive, suffer stress, burnout , to earn enough money and then be able to de-stress by traveling to a paradise seems like the paradox of human stupidity . That's life. I didn't invent it.

Day 6. We rested very well . At night, we heard birds singing like I could never have imagined, not even in the movies. Absolutely bucolic. After breakfast, we had an appointment for a one-hour full-body massage , but since it's low season, for the same price (about 35 euros each), they gave us half an hour free. (A gift considering we're in the mecca of massages , and in Madrid, prices range between 40 and 50 euros for just a half-hour, and that's just for a back massage.) At first, I was reluctant, since I'm not fond of groping others, but I changed my mind as the procedure progressed. The masseuse had powerful hands whose fingers applied merciless force to every knot in my battered back. I moaned several times, like a child being scolded but knowing, deep down, that it was for their own good. " Don't worry, your back will never hurt again, " she replies, as I feel her climb astride me. She places her knees on the back of my thighs and continues her relentless work. Minutes later, I come back from my reverie. I've fallen asleep. The masseuse's work continues. I feel as if I've been completely stripped of all my bones. I don't think she's left a single muscle unmasked: all six hundred or so have been passed over by her powerful thumbs, and she's smoothed them like someone rubbing anchovies from the Cantabrian Sea.

Later, we relax in the pool. I'm so relaxed, I'm a brain on a mat. Little by little, my Santa and I realize that our chronic back and neck pain are gone. Physical therapy is so important after a certain age, as well as in certain professions with a high physical component. Everyone should have access to this therapy, which also heals. And, by the way, dental treatments too (which is what we pay taxes for). This is the level of our reflections after a 90-minute massage in Thailand .

Day 7. Travel by boat to other islands on a pre-booked excursion. We snorkel at several designated spots, followed by lunch and a visit to another paradise island. A fast boat takes us about 60 kilometers away, and the pilot promises to take us there in an hour and a half . It goes so fast that every time it encounters a big wave, the hull slams violently into the water, impacting us, the passengers. It's not pleasant.

Once anchored in the first cove, the first thing we do is slather on the sunscreen. It's hard work but necessary. When my Santa applies it to my back, I notice the area where yesterday's treatment was applied is sore. Every cloud has a silver lining. The boat is full of foreigners of all nationalities, and Westerners are the fewest . The British are particularly striking, their white skin now salmon-colored and looking like it'll turn into first-degree burns in a few hours. I don't understand how a country with snowy skin has such a reluctance to use sunscreen. It should be a matter for discussion in the House of Commons.

It's astonishing how the need to protect skin from the sun's rays is still debated. Ultraviolet rays are increasingly responsible for the rise in melanoma cases worldwide, and these cases are more common because of the ozone hole. It's not me who says this, but science, but, of course, everything is politicized, or idiotized, because there are still flat-earthers, climate deniers, etc., who argue the inexplicable because it's part of the political premises of the party they vote for. There are fools everywhere: I remember how last year a soccer player boasted about not using sunscreen and denied on social media that the sun caused cancer to his 2.5 million followers.

On the way back, the ship moves less. Even so, a young passenger of unknown nationality feels seasick and vomits profusely. We've been paying attention to him since the beginning of the day, as it was clear his night had been rough, judging by his erratic behavior. Since he keeps gagging and there's still an hour left in the journey, I go to the stern where he's sitting, identify myself, and offer him a Primperam (metoclopramide) I've brought just in case. Surprisingly, I have no trouble convincing him, and he doesn't ask for explanations. He must be used to accepting free pills, even from strangers, I think, as he thanks me and takes a drink of water. When we disembark, he seems already recovered for another night of revelry. He reminds me of a character from that terrible DiCaprio movie, The Beach , which was filmed near where we were.

Day 8. Today we had dinner at the Four Seasons in Ko Samui . In other words, we have a reservation at The White Lotus , the hotel from the series. The experience is simply spectacular. We were delighted because we saw this same setting on the small screen earlier this year, and I had no idea when I wrote about it a few months ago [link to my article "White Lotus" if you find it relevant], that we would be here one day. It's a bit sad not to see it in daylight, but we still love it. They treated us very kindly and asked us if we wanted a little or a lot of spice. The dinner was very delicious, but with one conclusion (for this dinner in particular and for the trip in general): in Thailand you have to say "very little spicy." And don't order wine, since it's imported, bad, and very expensive.

Day 9. We have to go back. Just thinking about the journey ahead makes my legs tremble. An hour to Bangkok, a five-hour wait, an eight-hour flight to Doha , and then another seven hours to Madrid. About 25 hours in total, most of them crammed into a tiny space unsuitable for all body types. It's clear that money doesn't guarantee health, but it's evident that to be healthy, money is very important . We don't perceive it this way in our country, which enjoys magnificent, equitable, and universal public healthcare , but it is known in other countries whose healthcare management models are based exclusively on the cruelest and most detached privatization. As I board the plane, I drool at the sight of the cubicles of those who will be traveling first class: travelers from wealthy and generous families, important and honest businessmen, sensible oil company executives, renowned artists, intellectual soccer players, and generally rich and rotten people. This isn't our case, so we accommodate our limbs in the plane's bilge as best we can. It's about merging with the seat, clearing our minds, and waiting for the clock and the aircraft's propulsion systems to do their work.

I take a pill to induce sleep. It has a mixed effect.

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I get invited to a wedding and end up very sick.

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Day 10. Back to reality. A dry heat greets us, as if the weather were testing our patience and the resilience of our thermostat. The cat greets us with total indifference; it doesn't care whether we've been in Thailand or hidden in the garage. We simply weren't there, and it doesn't forgive us for that. We unpack. I take out the first-aid kit and put everything back where I usually keep it, because a doctor who travels with a first-aid kit has a medicine drawer at home (as does any other citizen). In many countries, pharmacies give you just the right amount of pills for your treatment, to avoid a buildup of medications in your home. They also give them without leaflets. Both cases seem right to me: the medicine drawer doesn't make much sense , since they end up expiring. Nor does it make sense for a citizen to read the leaflet: more than one of us begins to feel the adverse effects we're reading about what we've just taken. In total, I estimate we used the following together: two aspirin , two pairs of elastic compression stockings, twelve paracetamols, eight omeprazoles, three ibuprofens, two loperamides, one metoclopramide (the traveler's emetic), and one lorazepam. I think this is a reasonable amount.

Day 11. Routine. Work. Routine. Work. The trip is becoming a memory . I flip through the newspaper and read that Doha airspace has been closed. Wow! We weren't caught by 24 hours. Just thinking about being stuck halfway makes my skin crawl. No suitcases, just carry-on luggage. Not knowing when and how to leave, with professional obligations just around the corner. No clothes, not a change of clothes. At least not a toothbrush. Oh, and the first-aid kit, since I had it in my backpack. Better safe than sorry.

Get well soon.