It's 2:30 a.m., and I'm prowling around my friend's house in the dark, looking in all her closets.

I'm not normally this nosy. Really. I'd rather not know what's in most people's closets. But right now, it's the wee hours of the morning, and my stomach feels like it's being compressed in a vise. I need a Tums.

No doubt it was the Mexican food. In San Antonio, where I'm visiting my friend and her family, the local cuisine packs some punch. I don't speak Spanish, but even so, I probably should have been suspicious of a dish called Camarones à la Diabla.

Still, I've decided not to bother my hosts with my problem. Not only would it wake them unnecessarily, but — what's worse — it would absolutely compel them to poke fun at my wimpy digestive system.

So, I've decided to skulk around their house on my own.

I recognize that there are risks involved in searching people's closets and cabinets. You're bound to uncover some things that are deeply personal — the kind of items that, when you go to purchase them at the pharmacy, you try to cover with a bag of cotton balls or a magazine you didn't really want to buy. (And despite all these efforts, you unfailingly run into some nosy friend who takes one glance at what you're holding and announces, "Well, looks like someone has a colonoscopy coming up!") Consequently, I vow to rifle through all my hosts' most personal possessions in the most thoughtful way possible.

I start my prowling in the guest bathroom. The drawers are completely empty except for one of those suction devices — shaped like a mini-turkey baster — designed to help clear an infant's nose. This seems odd, given that my friend's youngest child is 17, but perhaps it has some alternate use I'm unaware of.

I'm amazed to find the under-sink cabinets nearly empty as well. Shouldn't any guest bathroom in the state of Texas have stockpiles of Pepto Bismol, Pepcid-AC or Tums? Do my friends host only enchilada-loving natives of El Paso or Guadalajara? Have they given no thought to the delicate stomachs of New Englanders?

I slip downstairs. Luckily, the master bathroom is across the hall from my hosts' bedroom, so I don't have to tiptoe through their room. I understand the dog sleeps in there, and he didn't like me even before I started breaking and entering.

I search the master bathroom: its drawers, closet and medicine cabinet. Nothing. How can this be? Do all Texans have stomachs of steel? Is it part of their citizenship test? ("Eat this burrito and record how you feel in half an hour ...")

I decide to try the kitchen, but am only halfway through the living room when I step on a snake. Or maybe it's not a snake, but something shaped like a snake that moves and yelps, though neither as quickly nor as loudly as I do. It is the dog — or rather his tail, which he removes from the room as quickly as possible. Meanwhile, I try to resume normal breathing, pretty sure that this whole experience just shaved two years off my life. Oddly, I find myself wondering how that translates into dog years.

I tiptoe into the kitchen as quietly as possible and flip on a light switch over the sink. As it turns out, it's not a light switch, but the garbage disposal. I experience another near-cardiac event.

I search the kitchen cabinets in vain. Then finally, in the last cupboard, I hit pay dirt: a shelf with various prescription drugs and other medications. Way in the back is a small box that is just the right size and shape. I think I even can see the word "heartburn" written on it. I am so relieved. I pull out the box.

What immediately strikes me as odd is the photo of the dog on the cover. I look more closely. It's not heartburn medication, I can now see, but heartworm.

I decide to pack it in. As a last resort, I try pouring myself a glass of milk and, amazingly, this seems to loosen the vice-grip on my stomach. I find I'm able to sleep.

The following morning, I chide my friend about her lack of over-the-counter medications. She looks puzzled and opens the door to a hallway that — who knew? — has yet another bathroom off of it. She reaches into the cabinet and produces several boxes of antacids, in all shapes and flavors, colors and sizes.

Travel, for me, is all about education, and I learned several things from this experience:

1. Never order a Mexican entrée that involves the Spanish word for she-devil.

2. Don't bother applying for a job as a prowler; and finally,

3. Always wake up your friends, because only they know where they're hiding the good drugs.

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Nancy Crochiere is a freelance writer and editor who tries to look at the vagaries of modern family life with humor. You can e-mail her in care of ndn@newburyportnews.com.