On my last night in Paris, I woke up shivering uncontrollably, my head splitting from a headache, my stomach full of nails, my eyesight blurry and my muscles weak. I had a fever.
Immediately I panicked. I had to check out the next day. I had a flight to catch, and a 17-hour layover in Denmark followed by another flight. I couldn’t do that if I was so sick.
I knew the solution: calm, sleep and water.
I mustered the strength to go to the bathroom for water. Back in bed, I texted a friend for calm. I didn’t need to urge the sleep: its pull was inexorable.
I kept waking every hour or two, and I would go to the bathroom and get water and go back to sleep. I considered extending my stay, but even the thought of the cost was stressful. I thought of extending my room reservation for one night so that I could at least stay in bed until I had to leave for the airport. But the thought of finding clothes and going to reception and talking was too exhausting.
I stayed in bed until past 11. Sleep and water did the trick and my fever receded. I had 7 hours between check out and take off and nowhere in particular to go, so I kept my arrangement to meet a friend for lunch. We went for lunch (where I had only soup and many, many drinks) after which she took me to a manga cafe where I passed out on the couch until my Parisian sister arrived to say goodbye.
I made it to the airport and slept through the flight to Copenhagen.
In Copenhagen, I took a taxi to my hotel and arrived after midnight. I adopted the same strategy again, leaving my luggage and clothes near the door and showering, then going to bed with only a towel.
Curled up in the bed, I passed out once again.
In the morning, I slept late and missed breakfast. When I got up, I was still weak, still in pain, still sick, but at least able to walk without feeling too queasy. I decided to try walking around the area. The lady at the reception desk lamented that she could not refund breakfast for me, but let me back into the kitchen to offer me tea, for which I was immensely grateful. As I drank the tea, I was given all sorts of advice about exploring the fishing village or taking a bus into Copenhagen.
I was excited to follow their advice, but when I finished my tea and stepped outside, my feet carried me away from the village, away from Copenhagen, away from Sweden and Denmark’s tunnel-bridge of friendship, toward the ocean.
I had a long and pleasant walk along the water, though I didn’t dare go as far as I wanted, knowing that as weak as I was, I might not be able to get back. I walked through the village as well, my admiration for the area overriding my pain and discomfort for a time. It was a pleasant walk, despite everything, and well worth the discomfort and exhaustion it cost me.
Denmark gave me a good ending to this grueling tale.