I’m going to die here. Perish in a steamy room that smells like an open sewer, in a city planned by schizophrenics, in a hotel where the only scenery next door is a junkyard for defunct cars.
I opened my eyes, staring at the ceiling fan whirring above.
I survived SARS in Vietnam.
I emerged unscathed from a dengue fever outbreak in Brazil.
H1N1 never came knocking.
I can’t shake this.
After my birthday, it reappeared. The burning hotness on the back of my neck. The fissures forming on my arm. Dammit, it was time to do something.
But when you’re alone in an unknown country, sometimes you freeze.
I didn’t know what to do. I come off brazen, an impulsive adventurer who gets on that boat with no lifejacket or hang-glides even though she gets vertigo.
Nah, this time I was scared.
Nothing was right. By now, I should be in Rishikesh, not waffling in Agra. By April, I wanted to be in either Sri Lanka or Thailand. It’s now March 31.
The blog is suffering. Who has time to craft words under duress? Shit, no.
Back to panic mode, I did what I know how to do best. Decided to leave.
I was supposed to stay at a Mystique Moments in Delhi earlier in March, but that got nixed because my Scottish travel companion convinced me to stay in the horrible Pahar Ganji area. Sure, it’s central. If you can endure tout after tout badgering you non-stop.
I remember the owner of Mystique oozing with niceness from his previous emails. I recall his guesthouse being