I have (stupidly) stashed my backpack in a bush to return and find everything I owned stolen (passport included).
I have had over a hundred mosquito bites covering my legs.
I have been so badly burned my whole chest blistered and I had to hide from the sun for two weeks while in tropical paradise.
I have had my camera and iPod stolen at gun point.
I have used many a non-Western toilet.
I have had a random stranger walk up to me and kiss me on the lips (to clarify, this was not fun).
I have had my boat’s motor break down in the middle of the Amazon.
I have been sad, and broke, and panicked, and lonely, and every emotion in between.
I have encountered many a massive cockroach.
But of all the travel blunders I have experienced, the very worst?
Toilet crickets. I effing hate toilet crickets. Every night I’d go to the bathroom, and there would be at least 4 crickets in the toilet, alive and well. And when I daringly sat atop that damn toilet, oh yes, they would jump up.
One night I encountered a tarantula on my way to visit the toilet crickets. Mr. Tarantula and I were fine with each other. I took some pictures of him, and he chilled out. He was cool.
But the toilet crickets? No. They are my number one foe.