I am suffering from jet lag, but as is usually the case, it is somebody else’s jet lag. Whereas I ought to be operating under the gentle, understandable befuddlement of one who is in Bangkok, thinking it’s Istanbul, a few calculations indicate I actually feel like someone in Lima whose rhythms are still shaking their circadian thang in Mumbai. As a result, when I fall asleep in the middle of the afternoon, it’s not just embarrassing, it’s inexplicable. I reckon every airline on which I travel slips some weird anti-melatonin in my drink, simply to ensure that no matter how ghastly the flight, how loud the shrieks of the feral children, how toxic the snuffles and coughs of the dodgy Vietnamese businessman at my shoulder, once I get off the plane, it will be even worse.
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