Send help. A dumbed-down, irritable woman with flat hair and bags under her eyes has inhabited my body and is walking the streets of Paris! The crazed zombie woman walked what should have been 4 km to Place des Vosges, but got lost and ended up near the Louvre. She found her way back, irrationally committed to writing in this square and this square only.She arrived two hours later. She sat on a bench and gobbled down my lunch of baguette and brie. She stared as a male pigeon puffed all his feathers out and chased a female pigeon around. It looked like he was dragging his big feathery butt on the ground.
Zombie Girl then lurched off under the archways that line the square, where she was met with reverberating shrieks of young children and the incessant and piercing report of a dog barking. The shrill noises bounced off the stone walls, rattling Zombie Girl's brain inside her lumpy skull. She became mildly homicidal.
Grunting, she dragged her half-dead carcass towards Rue du Hesse, where she was told she would find a perfect postage-stamp park. She did and felt momentarily human again, basking in the silence and the marvelous potential of the budding rose bushes. She made a note to find out when roses bloom. She had a brief conversation with a ladybug who was sharing her bench. They made plans to meet again the following week.
Consulting her map, Zombie Girl comes to the slow realization that she has one hundred miles to walk in order to get home. Her zombie feet have been replaced with shards of broken glass. C'est dommage. She begins the long lurch home, pausing now and then to feed off the souls of passersby. Which doesn't, incidentally, get her home any faster. Or help her karma whatsoever.
Once home, the zombie talks to my friend in San Francisco. (I don't think my friend knew she was talking to a zombie, so clever was the creature's disguise!) This friend is a good friend. The best kind of friend there is. She is a well-traveled person and she tells my zombie something interesting: this is the jet lag experience. Grumpy. Out of sorts. Tired. Hungry. Generally blech. I thought jet lag was just waking up at 2 am. Which I did. But, there's more to it.
My other friend put it less gently, 'What? Did you expect to be skipping down the Champs Elysee with La Vie En Rose playing as your personal soundtrack?'
Well...yes, as a matter of fact. I did.
My expectations were thus: I arrive and my apartment is perfect and glowing and fabulous. I wander down a charming street and gather delicious provisions. I awake smiling and bounce out of bed, greeting the first day of my dream with joy and outpourings of love and gratitude. I sit in a beautiful park, marveling at the richness of history and culture that surrounds me. I write. The words pouring out as though God herself has released a divine flood of creative brilliance just for me.
My reality has been thus: A comedy of travel errors including crying babies on the plane, insane shuttle drivers, absent landlords and shyster grocers. Waking up at 2 am, ravenously hungry. General blah-ness and lack of enthusiasm about this whole City of Light deal. Excitement about writing followed by disappointment at not being able to see my laptop's screen in the harsh light of noon. Counting the stairs up to my 6th floor flat: 104. Prolonged staring into space. Aversion to ordering coffee in a cafe due to the possibility of having to a) speak French or b) pay through the nose.
A quick search for the symptoms of jet lag and it all comes clear:
- Dehydration
- Loss of appetite
- Nausea and/or upset stomach
- Headaches and/or sinus irritation
- Fatigue
- Disorientation and/or grogginess
- Insomnia and/or highly irregular sleep patterns
- Irritability, irrationality
- Mild depression
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