Game 2.

I woke up the next morning about as sick as one could possibly be on a World Series Wednesday - retrograde amnesia, irritable bowel syndrome, and the feeling that someone had sawed off my unicorn horn. Okay, so maybe not that sick. I had your typical cold symptoms - throat on fire, drainage out the wazoo, and that delightful achy sensation all over that makes you want to sleep all day. I somehow convinced myself that I was okay to go to work, and boy should I have just stayed in bed. My head was foggy; it took me longer than usual to work through the usual problems. Luckily, my coworkers took it upon themselves to handle all the major fires and let me rest as much as possible while still churning out decent work.


When lunchtime rolled around, I brought my PB&J to a deserted office room and sunk down in the cushy swivel chair. I took one or two bites, then closed my eyes. It felt like my skin was on fire, but my arms had goosebumps all up and down them. I remembered the last time I felt like this - sitting on my parents' living room couch, bundled up under one or two blankets. The dreaded fever. I tried willing myself to sleep, I was sure that would help. It's hard to fall asleep when you're both hot and cold, though.

When my time was up, I trekked back to my locker and scarfed down some Advil. I think it was a half hour later when I started feeling much better. If it was indeed a fever, I suppose it had broken. I could feel my IQ points returning back to me, and my work buddies even mentioned I had started making jokes again. I texted H to let him know that I was feeling better, and while he was happy for me he suggested I stay home instead of going to the game. One thing I have trouble with is someone telling me not to do something. I told him I was going to the game - c'maaaaaaaaaan, it's the World Series! - but I agreed I probably shouldn't be flying out on the plane that night. [I had been invited to fly out after the game with the team and front office, but I can think of about thirty people I see every day who would have my head if I got the team sick on the plane ride over.]

One of my coworkers offered me a ride to the game, and I happily accepted. I made it to about the middle of the second inning before waving the white flag. H gave me one of those I told you so, but I still like you faces when I let him know I was down for the count. He said I could fly out the next day and not really miss much since it was their designated travel day. I had a nice and quiet Uber back to the house, then hopped into bed and slept.

Brother H had spent the night at our house too, so he was able to drive us to the airport. I didn't check back in with him once we split up (different airlines), but I hope his flight back was smooth. Things I remember from my flight to New York:

Layover in Dallas (any time I can spend in Big D makes me insanely happy). Had tomato basil soup at La Madeline's in the airport. That could have been the best tomato basil soup of my life (super rich, just a bit chunky, cream mixed in), but I couldn't taste it. Somewhere along the flight I had lost my sense of taste. All I could get from it was sour. The potato chips I had were crunchy. I was surprised I couldn't even discern salty from them. I wonder if anyone's looked into tastelessness as an effective weight loss tool. Chips aren't remotely appealing when they're just sharp bits in your mouth.

Boarding the next flight to LaGuardia, I was selective in my seat choice. I wanted to sit in the back where no one would be so I could reduce the risk of infection, but then the chipper flight attendant said it would be a full flight about three-quarters of the way back. I had two options by the time I got to the back: sit directly beside a woman and her seemingly newborn child, or sit in the row behind her. I was all set to sit in the row behind her, when I made the mistake of eye contact. "Want to sit here?" the sweet, wonderful, generous woman with a zonked out baby said.  "Sorry, no thank you," I replied.  For a moment she seemed dejected. I wanted to tell her it was because I didn't want to jeopardize her child's health, to jeopardize her health. I wonder if she thought me snooty for not choosing to sit beside her. As I sat down behind them, I tried to breathe less frequently. If I could sleep on the flight that would be the best option. Your respiratory rate diminishes during sleep, after all. And I think I did drift in and out of sleep - I was awake enough to order a ginger ale, then disappoint myself when I couldn't enjoy it and only experience a metallic undertone to the liquid.

I weaved my way in and out of people to what I deemed the Arrivals pick-up hub. Standing on the curb waiting for the car to pick me up, the first thing I noticed about New York was the sheer amount of honking. Every single car, every single bus, honking at one another as if that would make the line move faster. Once in the car, it took a little over an hour to drive 7.5 miles to the hotel. Mind = blown. No wonder people are riding around on bicycles or walking everywhere. I was almost better off walking. H would've loved that.

I finally arrived at the hotel, and H was outside to greet me. He walked me past the red velvet rope just beside the fancy doorman, the rope they use to keep adoring fans from clobbering muscular baseball players, and took my suitcase upstairs to the room. Sixteenth floor might as well have been the eighth, the buildings beside ours were so tall. H filled me in on his trip - they had arrived around six in the morning Eastern Time, so he slept for most of the day. Now he was ready to go wander around the city at night. I put on my thick winter coat and followed him to a corner of Central Park where a hot dog vendor was still open. H got a chili dog, and I went with a spicy Italian dog. The one thing about losing your sense of taste is that you can still feel spicy, and boy was this hot dog spicy. The raw onion slices were crunchy and sweet. The bell pepper strips were bitter. The mustard was bitter, but the ketchup was sweet. So it ended up being a sweet, bitter, spicy Italian hot dog.

We finished our food and walked over to Rockefeller Center. Top of The Rock, they call it. Brother H told me it was the best view of the city - everyone goes to the top of the Empire State Building, but this one's a better view. It definitely did not disappoint.

Look how excited I am to be taller than 95% of New York. 

At one point, they didn't have the plastic screen that's catching all of the reflections in the photos. At least, that's what I like to think. If you imagine people back in the 1930s when they constructed the building, don't you think the visitors would have had enough sense not to stand too close to the building's edge? There wasn't an infocard anywhere describing when the put up the plastic constructs, but I would bet it's due to 50% preservation of the people on top, and 50% shielding people from below from falling objects.

That blue one is the Empire State Building. 

I'd like to take this moment to show you this tiny, unrelated clip of nonsensicalness. If you asked me to name the top ten things that come to mind when I think of New York, this would be in the mix. Possibly number 6.

The bright, shiny thing off to the right is Times Square. 

 It was chilly for sure, but the amount of wind up at the top of the Rock I had not anticipated. It's a wonder planes get anywhere they're going with all that counter force.

Phone cameras apparently don't like no-light. 

A more centered picture of Times Square. 

We made our way down the seventy-something floors in an elevator designed to make your ears pop in four seconds flat. At the base of Rockefeller Center is Rockefeller Plaza, made iconic by the skating rink outside. I should have taken a picture of that - it was much smaller than they make it look on TV. Looked like a kiddo's play rink, it did. Located inside the Center, and next to the Plaza, is a restaurant that I can't remember the name of, but looked mighty fancy. H and I popped inside to grab a quick dessert. H said we should get the cheesecake, so I took a quick look at the menu and agreed we should share it. H hesitated for a moment, then said "No, I mean I'm getting the cheesecake. That's what you get in New York." I laughed, then waffled between cheesecake and this scrumptious sounding chocolate mousse cake. We got one of each, tried each other's choice, and decided our own was the better one.

Dark chocolate mousse, milk chocolate whip cream "icing", white chocolate pieces, dark chocolate puffed pearls,
milk chocolate and mascarpone "river", with a scoop of whip cream on the side.
As H put it, "That's chocolate on chocolate on chocolate."

We began our walk back to the hotel, but I asked H if we could stop to take a picture of this immense gothic cathedral opposite the Plaza.

I'm having flashbacks to sophomore year Art History class.  

 We went to bed pretty late that night, but that was more a matter of Eastern Time versus Central Time than actually staying up past a decent hour of sleep. I can tell you for certain that it wasn't long after I closed my eyes that I was waking up for Day 2 in New York.