I brought a cold and/or upper-respiratory bug from Cornwall to London. (Should have stuck with postcards, huh?) It worsened the next day so I decided to go to bed early rather than see “War Horse.” The virus had chewed its way into my bones.
Fortunately I’d packed some cold meds. A paranoid traveler is a prepared traveler, as well as a traveler who doesn’t have to go out in search of a pharmacy when she’s feeling like homemade shit.
As I crept along the hostel hallway I saw some young dude using a cell phone. He hung up and said, “Hallo, how are you doing?” Couldn’t place his accent or his provenance.
I replied, “I’m sick and I’m going to bed” and kept moving.
He followed me. “You are sick? What’s wrong?”
“A cold.” I coughed to punctuate/demonstrate. “Good night.”
“You should take a shower,” he said.
That sounded odd to me but I shrugged it off. “Maybe later.” As I pushed the heavy door open I saw the light I’d left on was now out. Apparently my roomies were early-to-bed types, too. So I opened the door as little as possible to keep out the hallway glare and slipped through the narrow space.
And the guy tried to follow me in.