I got home a little past midnight on Sunday night, after a long and gruelling trip from Casablanca. Three flights, changes in NYC/ JFK and Minneapolis/St. Paul, close to twenty-four hours in transit since the wake-up call came through in my Casablance hotel. I was pretty much a zombie by the time I stumbled off the last flight into Parris's loving arms, and a rotting zombie at that. After being oh-so-careful in Morocco -- not drinking the water, brushing the teeth with bottle water, avoiding uncooked food, etc -- I made the grievous error of eating at the McDonald's in the Minneapolis airport during our layover there, and came down with an nice all-American case of food poisoning. By the time I boarded my last flight my stomach felt as if I'd swallowed a lead bowling ball. It was the first time I'd eaten at a Mickey D's in a decade, and I hope that it's the last.
Anyway, the last day and a half I've spent mostly in bed or in the john, but I'm feeling a little better now. This is the first time I've felt strong enough to boot up my computer... where, of course, I found five hundred emails waiting.
The trip was great, and I hope to write more about it later, when I'm feeling stronger.
I have to say, though, I am not sure how many of these overseas trips are left in me. It's great when I get there, but air travel has just become SO exhausting and SO uncomfortable, especially when oceans are involved, that the mere thought of any more just now is daunting. Where are the rocket planes that I was promised in the SF of my youth?