Mal de Mer

Piazza Navone.

In Italian it's called "mal di mare."

Motion sickness.

For some reason, stone lions suffer greatly from this affliction. 

The Somali version is "Badda jirrada."
In German, "Seekrankheit."
Haitian Creole expresses it as, "Lanmè maladi."

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Napoleon is at it again? I'll be there in a sec.

A queasy marble lion can be found on the marker for Admiral Lord Nelson at St. Paul's Cathedral in London. The lion represents the man -- Nelson, a brilliant naval tactician, survived sea-sickness throughout his career. A career, just by-the-by, that started at age 12. 

Not only did the man get whittled down in defense of his country -- first losing sight in one eye, then losing an arm before taking a fatal gunshot --- but he yarked mightily while doing so.  

Yes, I should have known better than to snap a picture of said lion in church (ignorant git!), but for my sins, the film (film!) was double-exposed.  I share it anyhow because just look -- is he not the Bravest Little Toaster of all indisposed stone lions?

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Cornice detail in Rome. This poor creature is well in the grip of it.

"See-siekte" in Afrikaans.
"Fune-yoi" in Japanese.
In Latin, "Mare languorum."

Symptoms range from slight discomfort and unease to debilitating vertigo, vomiting, and resultant dehydration. 

People who have not yet been seasick display a slight edge over those who have. They say things like, "Think of something else." (What, like England?!) or, "I was nearly sick once crossing the Solent during the big storm of '08." They suggest, one way or another, that the illness is a conscious choice and probably a sign of larger moral weakness. 

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A pair of grave, possibly urpy lions flank a statue of Dante in Florence. This one to Dante's right.

"Pai-lu-a" in Hawaiian.
In Hindi, "Samudara de bimari,"  
In Maori, "Moana-te mate."

Dante's port-side lion. Just wishing for a dose of Pepto.

This guardian lion from a grave in ancient Rome (now watching the tourists at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in Manhattan) is sensing the first faint stirrings of internal unrest.

At the Vatican, he rages against the rising tide of sick.

"Sjó-veikindi" in Icelandic.
In Welsh, "Sawlch môr."
"Morskaya bolezyn" in Russian.

Sage advice includes: keep an eye on the horizon, eat saltines, take deep breaths. Some people swear by ginger, or  by acupressure bands. Pop a pill: most of which are antihistamines, but kindly fellow sufferers will hand over prescription Scopolamine patches (for which the side-effects may include hallucinations) with a knowing wince.

Oddly enougth, Laughter is not the best medicine for mal de mer. 

It hardly bears saying that sea-sickness is only humorous when someone else is suffering from it. 

Like that other hilarious malady, the hangover, sea-sickness grows increasingly entertaining the farther away it is in space and time. 

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He's reached the praying stage.

For the Basque, "Itsas gaixotasuna."
In Chinese, "Yùnchuán."
"Doença do mar" in the Portuguese.

What recourse does the sufferer have? The only sure cure is to hold quite still. On land.