I’ve been in three time zones this trip, mere hours apart. Seven hours separate me now from my normal time zone; the heat and the humidity have been more of a problem that disruption of my circadian rhythms here in Senegal. When I feel a little drowsy in the morning, I have tea or Coca Cola. This augments my Vyvance without pushing me into mania.
A tomato on a sandwich proved to be more of a problem. This morning I had nausea so bad that it broke through my Zofran. The technicolor yawn spilled out of my mouth like the larva came out of John Hurt’s chest in Alien. I handed my shirt and pants for processing over by Mami the maid, took a nuclear grade antibiotic that the tropical medicine specialist gave me, and took a long nap.
The plot that my psychiatrist and I hatched is working. I take two Tegretol first thing in the morning and two more later in the day. There are no visits from Tigger or Eeyore, no wild scenes with strangers. i keep calm under pressure from street vendors; “de-de” is very much a part of my vocabulary. (I have yet to say “Jok fe” which is “Go away”.) They are only trying to make a living.
London is an hour ahead of Dakar and Paris is two hours. We’ve already been to the city on the Thames; we’ve been through Paris twice, but our real visit there begins Sunday morning. I am proud of the fact that I have not lost my temper and raged against the cities. Even when I was pickpocketed (I got the wallet back) I accepted what happened and went on with my life. The trip is a success.