For those who think that whirlwind global travel for work sounds like a dream, I’m going to give it to you like this:
I’m currently sitting in a hotel room, bleary-eyed and on the verge of tears. I’m still damp from the constant drizzle/rain/downpour that is Paris in March, so I’ve half-undressed, but keep checking my e-mail for inevitable questions from the big boss, various colleagues, and my administrative person whose every e-mail back to me lists fourteen reasons why she couldn’t finish the one urgent assignment I’ve ever given her. I’m bloated beyond recognition, completely broken out (all over my body), constipated, and my hair looks like a giant, red, frizzy birdsnest, piled up in a knot. My frownlines are deeper than I’ve ever seen them. I look old. I’m getting testy, and so are my travelmates. We’re getting beyond the friendly newness of the whole situation. We’re tired, but still on a mission, and we’ve got to make it together until Saturday night. I’ve got one more set of reports to do, and it’s midnight. Our taxi to the airport leaves at 7am. Gotta pack…again.
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