Myself and the Alvin arrived in Sweden on Saturday evening. I know this is true because I had every electronic device available to tell me so, but I’m moderately sure I was on that plane for at least a week. I don’t fly badly, per se. I know what to expect, how long it takes me to be blessed with the gift of extreme back pain and how long it’ll take that to make me mean AF.
Five hours, if you’re curious. It takes 5 hours for me to hit maximum back pain, and maybe another two hours for that to turn to a delicately seething rage. This flight, it wasn’t the back pain that really got me, it was the air. I picked up a cold or something similar on the flight. I swear, I felt it settle into my nose like a stray cat settles into your couch after crawling through the open window. It’s not terrible, just couldn’t fucking breathe quite right. Colds infuriate me on my best day, much more when I’m in a country that doesn’t have actual non-homeopathic cold medicine. This is me, side-eyeing you, Sweden.
It’s now Wednesday and I’m mostly a human again. A friend who’s down with his husband for the same meetings Alvin’s in brought me expectorant and I’ll likely survive.
I am now in the village of Brest, in France:and it’s gloomy and lovely.We’re staying with Alvin’s dear friends. I’ll update this later with more information about the trip in general, but I’ve let this post languish for days, because I’m busy and lazy.
Chai and cat-tails, for now.