7 Expat Health Disasters That Made Me Pack Like A Paramedic!

How Getting Sick Abroad Turned My Backpack Into a Mobile Pharmacy

From Bed Bugs to Bed Rest, Here’s What I Wish I’d Packed Before It All Went Sideways

In Ukraine, on a summer dacha weekend, I watched my ex-girlfriend try to treat a mystery rash with vodka. 

Not medical alcohol, actual homemade vodka, called samagon, (translation: moonshine) from her parents. 

She swore it worked. I watched, horrified, as she hissed like a witch on a bonfire.

That night, lying in a guestroom that smelled like antiseptic and regret, I made a silent vow.

I’d never travel without real medicine again, or at least something that didn’t double as engine de-greaser.

Even after settling into places like Ukraine, Georgia, and Albania, I still packed like a clueless tourist.

I was vagabonding through life when I should’ve been packing like a grown-up who knew better.

Flip-flops, sunscreen, maybe a painkiller or two.

I had no idea what was waiting for me: mystery rashes, street food revenge, and full-body allergy meltdowns in towns where the pharmacy closes for a three-hour lunch.

So no, this isn’t one of those breezy travel tip lists that tells you to bring Band-Aids and Vitamin C.

These are the real disasters, mine and fellow expats’, that taught me how to pack like I was heading into combat.

Let me show you what I wish someone had told me before I ever left the country.

Medical Disclaimer: This article is for informational purposes only and is not a substitute for professional medical advice, diagnosis, or treatment. Always consult a licensed healthcare provider in any country for medical concerns.

1. The Hostel Horror: Food Poisoning and No Bathroom Door

There’s nothing quite like sprinting to a shared squat toilet in the middle of the night in coastal Bulgaria, trying not to wake your bunkmates or lose your dignity, or your flip-flops.

I don’t know what got me.

Could’ve been the questionable seafood platter or the “homemade” rakia served in a reused Coke bottle.

All I know is, when the cramps hit, the only thing separating me from total public disgrace was a thin, half-closed shower curtain and a prayer.

Lesson learned? Pack anti-diarrheals, oral rehydration salts.

And don’t trust seafood in places where the cook also rents scooters out front.

2. The Prescription Panic: Running Out with No Help in Sight

In Georgia, I once ran out of my allergy meds halfway through a spring bloom that would make a bee cry.

My eyes puffed up and my throat itched like I’d gargled fiberglass.

When I tried to find a local replacement, the pharmacist gave me something that looked like it was last approved by the Soviet Ministry of Mysticism.

Lesson learned? I now carry a backup stash of my prescriptions and always check local pharmacy rules before arrival.

Because “We don’t have that, but this one makes you sleepy and maybe less itchy” is not a medical strategy.

3. When a Cold Took Down an Expat Retiree in Albania

A retired expat I met in Saranda thought his sore throat was nothing a hot tea and sea view couldn’t fix.

Three days later, he was coughing so hard it sounded like he was trying to clear gravel out of his lungs and sweating through his sheets in 25-degree Celsius weather.

The local clinic was polite but useless, so they gave him a handwritten note, circled a spot on a map, and sent him to a private clinic on the edge of town.

When he arrived what he found was basically a construction site where the clinic was under mid-renovation.

Instead of a receptionist, he was greeted by two construction workers on a cigarette break who spoke no English.

Google Translate couldn’t make sense of his raspy voice, but after some creative miming, the workers pointed him to a back room where, miraculously, there was a doctor.

Lesson? Even a simple cold can take you out when you’re abroad and overconfident.

Pack your own cold meds, fever reducers, and anything you actually trust, because you don’t want to rely on mime and construction workers to get medical attention.

4. The Rash That Started with a Divan in Kyiv

Back in my early Kyiv days: pre-smartphones, no Google Translate, just me, a tiny Ukrainian phrasebook (at a time when most people still spoke Russian as their primary language), and of course, blind optimism.

I moved into an apartment that came furnished with what I can only describe as a Soviet-era torture couch.

It was called a divan, but it might as well have been a bed bug buffet.

I’d never had bed bugs before, so when I woke up covered in itchy, angry welts, I thought I was either allergic to the 1990s or being slowly consumed by invisible parasites.

Well, come to find out, it was both.

At the pharmacy, I started pointing to every part of my body like I was in a game of dermatological charades.

The pharmacist didn’t flinch.

She handed me three mystery tubes and said, “This one, strong.”

It was.

It cleared the rash, and half my epidermis.

Eventually, I convinced my landlord to replace the divan.

But not before nearly gassing myself out of the apartment with whatever over-the-counter chemical warfare pesticides I found to kill the bed bugs.

Lesson? Bring your own basics: hydrocortisone, antihistamines, and anything else that won’t make your skin peel like wallpaper.

You don’t want to learn the word for “rash” by acting it out in line at a Ukrainian pharmacy.

5. The Time Tap Water Betrayed Me… Even When Locals Drank It

In Romania, I got cocky. Locals drank the water, so I did too. Rookie move.

They were raised on it.. I wasn’t. 

Within 48 hours, my stomach was staging its own protest march.

The irony? I had a water purifier in my bag. Unused. Still in the packaging.

Lesson? Just because locals can drink it doesn’t mean your gut can. I now use filtered bottles, iodine tablets, or portable UV purifiers religiously.

Paranoia? Maybe. But I haven’t had a water-born breakdown since.

6. The Forgotten Meds That Could Have Saved Me

In Tbilisi, I developed the kind of sinus pressure that makes you want to drill into your own skull. Caused by my moldy first basement apartment…

I searched three local pharmacies, used up all my Google translate Georgian (not an easy language, even for Google translate) asking for “medicine for this” while pointing at my face like a deranged mime.

The pharmacists tried.

But all they had were eucalyptus candies and pity.

What would’ve helped? Nasal steroids, or at least some decent decongestants, ibuprofen, allergy meds, a thermometer, even something for nausea.

Now I pack them all, and yes, it takes up space.

But not as much space as a two-day Sinus migraine meltdown in bed does.

7. What’s in My Bag Now and Why Every Expat Needs It

After years bouncing between Ukraine, Albania, Georgia, through multiple airports, train stations and a dozen sketchy bus terminals, I finally have a packing system I trust.

It includes:

• Anti-diarrheal meds, nasal steroids, antihistamines, and anti-inflammatories
• Cold/flu tablets, good old aspirin, and decongestants
• Antibiotic cream, and bandages
• A water purifier and a digital thermometer

Every item has a story. Some stories are hilarious in hindsight. Some were panic-inducing in real time.

But all of them taught me this: when you’re far from home and sick, your suitcase becomes your survival kit.

Don’t Wait Until You’re Desperate!

Being an expat doesn’t make you invincible. It just means you’re far from home when things go sideways.

Side note: In a lot of European countries, pharmacists actually know their stuff and can recommend meds without sending you to a doctor.

They’re trained and trusted, a lot more than their insurance liability paranoid U.S. counterparts with a “take two Tylenol and good luck” approach.

Quick disclaimer: No matter the country, see a real doctor!

Google, hope, and even the best local pharmacist are no match for professional medical advice.

In the end, I’ve learned the hard way that hospitals don’t always speak your language, pharmacies aren’t psychic, and sometimes the difference between a great trip and a disaster is a tiny white pill in a Ziploc bag.

So pack like help isn’t coming.