The side effects of jet lag
Somewhere in my dozing brain there were sketchy dreams, of flight announcements, panicked rushing to catch different flights, of sing song Indian voices, clipped British accents and even Cecil the lion (I don't know how he got into my dreams).
The vividness of these recollections churned through my head, matched by the vividness of the pain shooting through my right shoulder. I have had this phenomenon of a frozen shoulder when I have a long flight, for quite some time now.
I have flown some 12,000 miles on this journey, spanning some 18 hours, not counting the time spent in transit.
I uncurled myself and prepared to claim my luggage after landing at Los Angeles. I would have to catch my ongoing flight to San Diego within two hours, after clearing customs and immigration procedures. The prodigious volumes of travellers this airport handles is a matter of amazement.
Of course, my flight on an Airbus 380 was a remarkable one; I have never flown in such a large airplane before. It disgorged the contents of two floors of passengers, tightly packed aboard straight into the arrivals hall, some 830 passengers alone!
Which meant that the baggage carousel was straining mightily to produce and display all the luggage of all these passengers. Sometimes the bags were three or four deep, making it a sheer acrobatic feat to retrieve a recognized suitcase from way in the back of a relentlessly moving beltway.
I scanned the carousel anxiously for my two bags, keeping an eye on the clock to be able to catch my next flight onwards to San Diego. Alas! Neither of them appeared.
I found the two disinterested baggage agents, who desultorily scanned their work sheets and who eventually declared after several proddings, that my luggage had not arrived. This, of course, was what I had been trying to impress upon them all the while. The two bags, they said, were languishing in London and would be sent home to me later.
Staying awake on the last leg of my journey was harder than I imagined.
I have long forgotten the early days of medical residency, when I had conquered sleep. The announcement that I had arrived in San Diego was most welcome, though I had a twinge of anxiety and annoyance at arriving without my luggage. The making of claims and receiving of assurances of the impending arrival of my bags by the next day was all met with a weary scepticism on my part.
I went home to doze again.
Again, Cecil appeared. Dreams are a consolidation of thoughts they say.
I don't know what was being consolidated, except for a feeling of intense pity and hopelessness for a lion that met with an unwarranted, miserable end.
The next day, one of my two bags arrived.
The second one was found and lost again by the airline. The absurdity of the situation was now unravelling my anger and tension.
A haze surrounded my head as I struggled to regain my daily routine while fighting jet lag.
The bag that was found, yielded up a few gifts sent by a grandmother in Kolkata, that were to be dispatched to a couple of little girls in Chicago.
Off I went to the post office, in my sturdy little wagon, that drove exactly as I have always driven it for 15 years. The nice predictability of German engineering and careful attention to its upkeep by my husband, were what I was thankful for.
Alas! Suddenly, there sounded a cracking noise and the car shuddered, careened to one side and brakes failing to engage, came to an awkward halt, as I jammed on the handbrake. Ironically, this happened about half a mile down the street from the German Motors shop, where my car enjoyed its periodic upkeeps. I walked uphill to the shop and made phone calls to get it brought to the shop and repaired.
The bad news is that the engine has died. It is curtains for my beloved chariot. A new one must replace it. I hate that.
I went to bed, my shoulder still aching unmercifully, each time I turned in bed.
It was 2 a.m. and I was wide awake. Cecil had just arrived again, and I was trying to dislodge him from my brain. The battle caused me to wake up.
I wandered around in the dark of my house, until I heard the tide roaring in in the ocean.
I thought to go outside and sit on the terrace to listen to that marvellous sound, waves crashing on to the shore. Then I remembered, the Perseid meteor showers would be on.
I saw about a dozen, over about half an hour, sitting in the dark and marvelling at the night sky.
We worry about too many things in life. Yet life goes on on its own trajectory, oblivious of our concerns. Doesn't it?
Somewhere in my dozing brain there were sketchy dreams, of flight announcements, panicked rushing to catch different flights, of sing song Indian voices, clipped British accents and even Cecil the lion (I don't know how he got into my dreams).
The vividness of these recollections churned through my head, matched by the vividness of the pain shooting through my right shoulder. I have had this phenomenon of a frozen shoulder when I have a long flight, for quite some time now.
I have flown some 12,000 miles on this journey, spanning some 18 hours, not counting the time spent in transit.
I uncurled myself and prepared to claim my luggage after landing at Los Angeles. I would have to catch my ongoing flight to San Diego within two hours, after clearing customs and immigration procedures. The prodigious volumes of travellers this airport handles is a matter of amazement.
Of course, my flight on an Airbus 380 was a remarkable one; I have never flown in such a large airplane before. It disgorged the contents of two floors of passengers, tightly packed aboard straight into the arrivals hall, some 830 passengers alone!
Which meant that the baggage carousel was straining mightily to produce and display all the luggage of all these passengers. Sometimes the bags were three or four deep, making it a sheer acrobatic feat to retrieve a recognized suitcase from way in the back of a relentlessly moving beltway.
I scanned the carousel anxiously for my two bags, keeping an eye on the clock to be able to catch my next flight onwards to San Diego. Alas! Neither of them appeared.
I found the two disinterested baggage agents, who desultorily scanned their work sheets and who eventually declared after several proddings, that my luggage had not arrived. This, of course, was what I had been trying to impress upon them all the while. The two bags, they said, were languishing in London and would be sent home to me later.
Staying awake on the last leg of my journey was harder than I imagined.
I have long forgotten the early days of medical residency, when I had conquered sleep. The announcement that I had arrived in San Diego was most welcome, though I had a twinge of anxiety and annoyance at arriving without my luggage. The making of claims and receiving of assurances of the impending arrival of my bags by the next day was all met with a weary scepticism on my part.
I went home to doze again.
Again, Cecil appeared. Dreams are a consolidation of thoughts they say.
I don't know what was being consolidated, except for a feeling of intense pity and hopelessness for a lion that met with an unwarranted, miserable end.
The next day, one of my two bags arrived.
The second one was found and lost again by the airline. The absurdity of the situation was now unravelling my anger and tension.
A haze surrounded my head as I struggled to regain my daily routine while fighting jet lag.
The bag that was found, yielded up a few gifts sent by a grandmother in Kolkata, that were to be dispatched to a couple of little girls in Chicago.
Off I went to the post office, in my sturdy little wagon, that drove exactly as I have always driven it for 15 years. The nice predictability of German engineering and careful attention to its upkeep by my husband, were what I was thankful for.
Alas! Suddenly, there sounded a cracking noise and the car shuddered, careened to one side and brakes failing to engage, came to an awkward halt, as I jammed on the handbrake. Ironically, this happened about half a mile down the street from the German Motors shop, where my car enjoyed its periodic upkeeps. I walked uphill to the shop and made phone calls to get it brought to the shop and repaired.
The bad news is that the engine has died. It is curtains for my beloved chariot. A new one must replace it. I hate that.
I went to bed, my shoulder still aching unmercifully, each time I turned in bed.
It was 2 a.m. and I was wide awake. Cecil had just arrived again, and I was trying to dislodge him from my brain. The battle caused me to wake up.
I wandered around in the dark of my house, until I heard the tide roaring in in the ocean.
I thought to go outside and sit on the terrace to listen to that marvellous sound, waves crashing on to the shore. Then I remembered, the Perseid meteor showers would be on.
I saw about a dozen, over about half an hour, sitting in the dark and marvelling at the night sky.
We worry about too many things in life. Yet life goes on on its own trajectory, oblivious of our concerns. Doesn't it?
