I was in Boston, about to complete a conference in Cancer Medicine, but the triple threat of dwindling cash, rapidly filling up credit cards, a creepy chest and throat cold, and limiting knee pain, overcame my cheery resilience and quixotic notions of blogging the Presidential primaries for my unspecified Press and Media buddies, who have as yet to make real or meaningful contact with me, but with whom I share a rich if largely imaginary and projected relationship.
I was in the boston hotel room, at the Fairmont Copley, with incessant door slamming by the other guests and the mostly Haitian housestaff, one day of horrendous slamming by one of the managers there, weird sound effects by a couple of the other managers.
I had attempted to attend as many sessions of the Cancer Medicine as possible, having arrived the previous Sunday, from London.
The sharp cold and dryness of the airconditioning prolly done me in by the third night when I woke with horrendous throat pain. Lozenges were of no use, or only limited, but I remembered that I had a packet of 6 pack Azithral, zithromycin, and deployed it at 200 am.
After that, the panic only increased.
On my first 2 days, I was actually quite happy, I moved around Boylston St, and St James St and posted my sisters and my registration renewals with return receipts and was happy with my surroundings and the new TV friends I seemed to have acquired and re acquaintance with old friends on CNN, ESPN.
There was no BBC and deutsche welle, and that may have led to my increasing feeling of being out in outer space and limbo, although the horrendous noise and the increasing intrusions of crowds when I moved outside may have been a factor.
Knees that started aching after a mere 15 minutes of fairly slow ambulation also led to my increasing panic of lack of ambulation, the dwindling cash was a huge factor and the throat pain reduced but a persistent catching pain started to develop in the bronchial retrosternal region.
So on Friday night, after my Dad had made twice or three times daily calls at my insistence and grateful request, when my Dad suggested I forget about the next phase of the trip which was supposed to be in New York, I was flooded with relief and too scared to venture out of the room to go to the computer room, since the habit of bystanders of making noisy or verbal commentary on my computer work had followed me to Boston, and waited next morning, when my first try on Northwest yielded me a potential reservation.
Gladly I fled back to my room, my Dad called and I excitedly told him the news of the potential reservation, and he said Done, do it, and I immediately called Northwest where a slightly persnickety chick nonetheless managed to make my reservation on Saturday for the following Sunday (1 week ago) to return home.
It was a tourist class ticket, I wasnt even sure I would fit in the seat, or find meals, or make it through the flight without getting a DVT or worsenening chest cold, or losing my personal belongings, but I was thrilled.
Being in the USA, even with a US passport, without a home address, with dwindling cash, with bad knees, which suddenly got bad, and a bad throat and chest cold seemed like a hazardous enterprise.
My Dad and my sister are pretty frail, but suddenly I felt the three of us together in India, even with me perched uncomfortably on one of 2 couches, and rotating between bathrooms to avoid giving trouble to others, was still a way, way hugely better situation.
I also checked a little booklet of Indian holidays and planetary alignments and this past week and a few days of the next were wall to wall sad or mournful or scary ***grihas*** alignments and I just felt way too panicked to continue to take a chance.
So here I am, back in India, a week after I fled Boston and gave up on my quixotic notions of blogging the Presidential primaries for my real and imaginary and projected friends, mostly in the international Press.
Bye bye
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