I Think It Was The Bird Flu

In this space should be some grand story about my latest expeditions in Tokyo. I spent hours and hours on Sunday meticulously packing for a few days of shopping, dining and spa visits in the city followed by a trip to China not long afterwards. Unfortunately, somewhere in the wee hours of Monday, I came down with the flu. Desperate to still go, I did everything I could throughout the day to rid myself of at least the fever, so I could drag my ass through the seven minute walk to the train. I never made it. In the end, it was a sensible decision not to screw with the China trip, which obviously requires way more planning than a few days in a city just north of me.

So for the past three days, I have instead laid in my bed studying Beijing guides that have helped me plan out every detail of the trip ahead, including cramming down tips like… no tipping, no touching, no spitting and no frivolous comments about Communism. The last will by far be the hardest for me, not because of an excessive distaste of the ideology, but more my own curiosity popping out where it isn’t wanted or appreciated. In fact… just to be on the safe side… if you don’t hear from me for a few weeks, perhaps someone could call the American Consulate and have them check the local holding facilities? When I was eighteen and making my singular first trip out of the country, my parents were quite forthcoming to note that if I ended up in a Mexican jail, they would not be coming for me any time soon. Since that was on the same continent, I’m pretty sure the delays for help from them would be a bit greater now, given the distance of halfway around the globe. The nameless, faceless internet may be my only hope. I kid, Mom! I promise to behave!

Since I still cannot sit up straight for more than a handful of minutes, I’m heading back to bed, armed with a bit more research to peruse on where to find the best of the famed Peking Duck… but, you know… the one served without the head.