Sick
My last days in Paris. Ah, the sadness. Yesterday I spent hours riding my bike around the Seine, to the Tour Eiffel (well, the closest I've been to it yet), through Paris Plages, down to the Pont de Sully, past the Palais Royale. It was kind of an epic journey through Paris, but fantastic. All in all, I rode for about 2 hours straight, then on-and-off for the next 3-4 hours, in between sitting on the "sandy beach"-mach plage and writing postcards, and shopping for the one Parisian fashion trend I want to take back home: MC Hammer pants and accidentally littering in the Seine, at which point I hopped into a foreign boat to retrieve my accidental litter and throw it in the bin. All in all, the biking was grant. It has been grand the whole time. Just grand.
I'll miss my bike.
But the sense of wonder - and sadness, even - has been tempered by a growing illness for the past couple of days that consists of a persistent, flemmish cough and chronic dehydration. Due to my other healthful habits, the only source I think I can blame for such an energy-zapping summer sickness is the smoke. Yes, the smoke. I maintain that direct (secondhand) contact from cigarette smoke is more harmful than living in a chronically polluted state, because, even in Dhaka, pollution has never made me so ill as secondhand smoke has. Ick. I remember a certain day of shooting in London with an actor who was a chainsmoker, and developing - overnight - this same, vicious condition. I feel it happening, and there's no way I can stop it. I'm currently sitting outside a cafe, where (blessedly) no one is smoking, but this is not usually the case. I guess the up-shot to the dismal weather in Scotland is that the inside/outside, non-smoking/smoking distinction is more definitively maintained when the weather prevents one from taking advantage of the outdoors for reasons other than lighting up a warm, toasty cigarette.
Enjoying my last cafe day. To be continued...
I'll miss my bike.
But the sense of wonder - and sadness, even - has been tempered by a growing illness for the past couple of days that consists of a persistent, flemmish cough and chronic dehydration. Due to my other healthful habits, the only source I think I can blame for such an energy-zapping summer sickness is the smoke. Yes, the smoke. I maintain that direct (secondhand) contact from cigarette smoke is more harmful than living in a chronically polluted state, because, even in Dhaka, pollution has never made me so ill as secondhand smoke has. Ick. I remember a certain day of shooting in London with an actor who was a chainsmoker, and developing - overnight - this same, vicious condition. I feel it happening, and there's no way I can stop it. I'm currently sitting outside a cafe, where (blessedly) no one is smoking, but this is not usually the case. I guess the up-shot to the dismal weather in Scotland is that the inside/outside, non-smoking/smoking distinction is more definitively maintained when the weather prevents one from taking advantage of the outdoors for reasons other than lighting up a warm, toasty cigarette.
Enjoying my last cafe day. To be continued...