After what may be the most uncomfortable 12 hours of ear-popping, cough stifling, non-breathing, head-pounding travel I can remember, I arrived in San Diego, where the blessed humidity comforted my ragged lungs. There are black rocking chairs interspersed through the modern airport and people using them. The local magazine has handwriting analysis of the city's leaders and includes info on the mayor's favorite jeans and "hike". In Cornwall in the UK, Charles Winpenny posts pictures from the tops of cliffs and hills after what he calls "walks" though I'm sure they're miles long and serious footwear is required. Aside from his camera, I've never read him discussing his gear. In California, it's not sport or exercise without a gritty name and pricey, specialized equipment .
The beach here on Coronado Island is lovely. The hotel and grounds are lovely. What I've seen so far of the city is also very nice, but I've been dragging everyday, and it's been tough working up the steam for activities. I've seen a lot of terrible movies from the room and chased away the housekeeper until afternoon every day. During evening social occasions, I'm trying not to let on to the bridal couple that we're bringing typhoid to their nuptials. In the fog of plague, I forgot to pack most of what I intended and have been acquiring temporary replacements from here and there, but I feel like a hanging sleeve- un together, unfabulous. Still, my health keeps improving, even if I feel I'm wasting some of the beauty and fun on supply here. Two days ago, I only wanted to live. Today, I'm well enough to feel cranky and resentful. This is progress. I hope I'll get to the zoo today, if only briefly, just so I can say I did and get a monkey picture. Till later. With apologies.
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