Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
Books saved my life that week.
While Michael was in town on Sunday morning, filling my prescriptions, I tottered geri-
atrically from the bed where I'd sweated my way through the night into the sun-drenched
living room.
The sight of the sparkling ocean through the French doors elevated my mood slightly
but I still felt achy, light-headed and angry with my body for betraying me at the start of our
much-anticipated vacation.
Was this a harbinger of things to come?
I asked myself.
I was barely fifty and already falling apart.
And then I saw the bookcase.
At first I expected the usual vacation house dreck—fat, pulpy paperbacks caked with
sunblock and sand. But these shelves offered much more. Clearly there was a reader of dis-
cernment in the general vicinity—whether the owner, the property manager, or just a lucky
confluence of previous guests, it was impossible to say. Whatever the source, the result was
a gold mine.
I have always been a hungry reader, prone to losing myself completely between the cov-
ers of any half-well-written book. This little collection promised unhoped for release from
my damp misery.
By the time Michael got back from the pharmacy I was so engrossed in Carrie Fisher's
The Best Awful
I'd almost forgotten I was sick. Between chapters I'd even found the strength
to drag myself into the bathroom and wash my face. Now I was on the balcony, draped
across a chaise with a glass of orange juice at my side, and a light blanket thrown across my
knees to keep the shivers at bay. Michael swung around the corner, sweaty but triumphant.
“They opened at eleven, just like the doctor told us,” he said, panting slightly, “but what
he didn't tell us was that there would be about twenty people waiting in line. It had a slight
whiff of Stalingrad about it, but everyone was very pleasant and here I am.”
He dug the bottles of pills out of the paper bag he was holding and lined them up across
the rickety table at my side.
“This is your antibiotic. This is for your lungs. And I'm not sure what this one is for, but
it looks fierce. I might try a couple of those myself.”
He hurried inside for a glass of water, clearly as anxious as I was to let the healing begin.
Pills duly swallowed, I continued to feel wretched. Michael hovered empathetically but there
wasn't much more he could do. I simply had to sweat it out, literally and figuratively.
“Come on,” Michael said, jolting me out of my reverie around four that afternoon.
“We're going to the beach. You need some exercise.”
I looked at him in disbelief.
“You must be kidding,” I croaked.
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