Yes, I’ve tried inhaling gallons of turmeric-laden steam, I’ve had enough chicken manchow soup to float an aircraft carrier, and I’ve even tried temper tantrums, but none of those have helped. It’s annoying as heck. I mean, I’m a hospitable guy, but I don’t remember offering my sinuses to germs as a sort of serviced apartment. “Would you care to stay another month, sir? You’ll have to be dribbled out every morning, of course, but you can return in the night, no problem.”
It’s particularly galling because this is our sixth anniversary issue (we are now the same age as Calvin, which gives me immense joy), and we should be planning parties, but all I can do is honk at people like an upper-class goose. And we’re talking about terrific destinations, while I’m stuck managing Le Grand Hotel Virus in a smoggy Mumbai that can’t seem to decide whether it wants to be hot or cold. I’d really rather be elsewhere.
In Ecuador, for example, whose menu of experiences stretches from the Andes to swimming with iguanas in the Galápagos. Or in South Korea, where the live octopi I get to eat (in really lovely, quirky settings) can duel with my resident rhinoviruses like a very small Godzilla. Or perhaps I could get a bottle of whiskey as I explore Game of Thrones filming locations in Northern Ireland, or some sinus-clearing snaps in Sweden, which is really quite a big, surprising place. Or I could just go throw it all to the wind and go clear my head in the mountains around Kalap in Uttarakhand, tracing the lives of nomadic, progressive shepherds.
Alternatively, if you’d care to offer these poor, misunderstood germs a new place to live, I can heartily recommend it. Salt of the earth – take them, by all means.