Lagging

If it is possible to leave one's heart in San Francisco, it is equally possible to leave one's brain in Italy. I am reasonably certain that this is what occurred in a casual moment, perhaps in the men's room at Firenze airport, maybe on the hotel terrace, somewhere. In any case, the sucker has vanished. They call it jetlag. They call it as they see it. They call the wind Maria. No one knows who they are or why they call anything anything. In fact, we are not calling them anymore. They are off our list. We don't have a list. We have jetlag.

Waking up to my first California morning, head aching, body giving a very convincing imitation of a hangover, I rose as much as I always do. That is to say, I stood, turned and sat down in my wheelchair. Marlou attributes the headache to our high intake level of caffeine, Italy being renowned for its cappuccinos, espressos, and so on. It's true. We were tanking up several times a day. Slowed by warmth, sensuality and beauty in abundance, speeded by the odd espresso, our lives achieved a perfect balance. A golden mean. A renaissance evening of things. Which was why, collapsing into my wheelchair in Menlo Park, California, once my butt hit the cushion, and my hand hit the joystick control, one would have thought that the seating procedure was over. But, no, for my body sank into position, and something else kept sinking. Some essence sagged from my solar plexus. It was like cracking an egg over a frying pan and staring, stupefied, as the yolk slides unexpectedly across the white. There was something happening, right on the edge of nausea, and rather alarming if one thought about it. Which one didn't. One had already volunteered to make a daylight run to Peet's coffee.

On the way, Menlo Park placed its hands on my temples and pressed, squeezing my head the way that the curbs squeezed the Sunday morning street pavement. Was I supposed to be in the street, bouncing over the asphalt at 8 mph? Maybe, maybe not. There seemed little choice. I knew the way to Peet's. It's just that I had lost the feel of the way to Peet's. Never mind. A stop for pastries. That's what the bakery department of Draeger's is for. Or was for. There are the pastries. There is the pastry lady. When you talk to the pastry lady, you have to open your mouth. Opening your mouth requires mild muscular activity, which, yes, contributes to the vague headache that currently pervades your day. Never mind. Never more. Quoth the Raven.

Back home with coffee. Yes, it hits the spot. The spot is, however, moving. It's like the sunspot, that thing that flares periodically, messing up your FM reception. Sometimes the spot collapses. It's doing that now, 1:30 p.m., time for a good sleep. And since you are back in bed, feet elevated, surely you'll go unconscious for a few pleasant minutes. But, no, this is fatigue vying with adrenaline, or something like it, a circadian square dance, do see doe.

Jetlag wears on, as it wears off. After a night or two, there's even the sense that you're past it. Or it has passed you on its way to somewhere else. Until you wake up at 3 a.m., alert and fully prepared to solve a complex quadratic equation. Or have a go at the Times crossword. You are fit as a fiddle, and fiddle sticks, there's not much action about. That's when a few herbal sleeping pills come in handy. Pop those suckers, and you'll drift off into a naturopathic neverland. It never fails. The only thing that can fail is supply, which is no problem, because the very next day you happen to be in Palo Alto's Whole Foods supermarket. There they are, one little bottle of herbal wonders, now purchased and occupying the same bag as your tuna sandwich.

You take the train to the wheelchair repair guy. He's never seen anything like the damage to your left wheel. The guys at Firenze airport appear to have bashed in your tire with a sledgehammer. Not to worry. You are where you should be, in the repair shop, and now with your wheelchair back in order, you are back on the road. The railroad, true, but that will do. You're back home in Menlo Park by the time you realize that the herbal sleeping pills, formally in a bag with a tuna sandwich, are now sitting in the trash back at the wheelchair repair shop. You've thrown out the remains of lunch along with the coming night's calmative. You are still jet lagging, a jet laggard, and now you're going cold turkey. Going, going, gone.