I woke up on Sunday morning with a sore throat, an ominous beginning to my 24-hour, 10,000-mile journey back to the States. By the time I boarded the plane in Bamako that night, I had a persistent nagging cough. On the flight to Paris, and again on the flight to Philadelphia, I was “that guy" - the sniffling, coughing guy who is giving everybody else on the plane his cold.
Today I’m feeling even worse. I went to the Library of Congress, but only managed about 90 miserable, cough-suppressing minutes before I fled. I didn’t want to be “that guy” at the LOC, too.
Here in Washington I’m renting a room in a condo from some guy I found on Craigslist. I don’t know what he and his roommate do all day, but it doesn’t require them to leave the house much. So here I am, stuck in a stranger’s house, feeling pretty lousy.