Too Good To Be True: The Obligatory Jet-Lag Story

Dang but I got suckered into thinking I had it beat. Shoulda known better. I managed to get some sleep last night, about five hours worth. Got up at around 7 a.m. this morning and went about my day unpacking and decompressing and catching up with Survivor and The Sopranos and the animals and such.

And at around 4-5 p.m. I was relatively smug and perky and thinking this jet-lag thing was highly overrated, that I was already adjusted back to Cali time.

Oh hell no.

Not more than an hour later the last thing I exhaustingly mumbled to my loving wife at her desk (whose not only dealing with laggage but also battling the effects of the sinus thing that I gave her that was given to me by someone on the ship before we got to Rome) was “Oh, I’ve hit the wall, baby!” and a few minutes later I was in bed and out like a light.

Six hours later and here we are. W-I-D-E awake. Which is great if I were physically still in Paris because it’s 8:51 a.m. there. But instead it’s midnight:fiftyone here in the City of Angels, a long way from the City of Lights. If I’m lucky I’ll hit a second wall shortly and pull in a few more hours of shuteye. If not I’m up all night — and speaking of W-I-D-E, most likely I’ll be marching toward morning by cruising around in iPhoto and building several panoramas, starting with this one of Susan looking out from our room over Notre Dame Cathedral and our section of Kilometer Zero Paris (click to enlarge):