I am defeated.

I am defeated. Laid low. Destroyed and demolished. You see, I have that most dreadful of afflictions, and though it pains me to see it written, the curse made manifest in font and pixel, even as the truth is undeniable before me in at least three viscous dimensions, I cannot deny that I am, alas, fallen under the tyrannical sway of that bane of mankind, the scourge of our species, the burden of life on earth: I have a Man Cold.

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How long IS the incubation period for colds, anyway? By which I mean: which of the mouth-not-covering, or take-their-wretched-sneezing-offspring-to-look-at-and-spray-all-over-the-breakfast-buffet buzznuggets can I blame for this? For the burning that begins in my left nostril and extends down into my throat. For the insistent seep that flows out of my face like the capricious currents of the Bosphorus. And while I’m asking questions, why does travel so often involve blasting fluids out of orifices unaccustomed to such liquid product?

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I am medicating with plates of spiced kebab meat and endless cups of Turkish cay tea, and the treatment seems to be working, but for the moment I can only sit on the stony shore beside chilly seas, not daring enter into Poseidon’s mildly refrigerated embrace, stuck onshore where there is naught to do but examine the epic Taurus Mountains that rage upward into snowy peaks in prime oceanfront locations, or listen to the moment of clicking that comes after the larger waves on the pebbled shore, retreating in a localized rockslide before the next wavelet comes in, too enthusiastic about itself to listen to the lithophonic percussion of its dying predecessor. Poor rocks. Poor me.

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We came to this odd little town to find something, but apparently that thing doesn’t live here after all, so today we’ll walk, or bus, or bus then walk, and perhaps spend the night tonight among the gods? Except Poseidon. He’s still on his own.

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Hachoo.