Jetlag, Two Months Late

I was sitting on a bench with good company. I stood up. "I think I'm..." "Getting heatstroke?" We all laughed. I threw up, hunched over with my hands on my knees, inspecting the bits of splattered food. I saw sun-dried tomatoes. Voila, my scapegoat: that "House Salad" at the Amsterdam airport. It had shrimp and slabs of smoked salmon. Maybe this explains the wait staff's faintly amused air.

Which is just to say that at the time, I only wondered vaguely (everything is vague, travelling by air) should I trust this more or less raw salmon? This was after having eaten half the plate.

Ill-timed, too, was this airport survey conducted by a Dutch pixie (one green eye and one blue, small enough to buzz aloft in her black suit). The last of the tedious questions was a general "do you have any comments about the airport, things we might do better?" I could not have said "the salad gave me food poisoning."

What is the right time to be awake in Delhi in summer? It's 110 in the afternoon, but nobody is awake in the middle of the night (which is why I was up writing this).

After my rebirth in bile (four times was the charm), jet lag went from offset to chaos. It made no sense to stay awake when I felt like sleeping (which was most of the time). I slept for a few hours, layed around reading in a dark air-conditioned room, fell back asleep. (The consensus was that it was more heat than salad.) I woke up at 2AM to eat two slices of toast. The kitchen light made me nauseous. Being awake during the day seemed senseless.

The mental haze of the fever has passed. Sleep and the day have flipped back into opposition, and back again on the other side of the earth. But there's always something pulling me away at the wrong moments. The sense remains that I'm awake at night and asleep during the day. Idealism.

21 July 2014