you want to go, but I am how you will get there. It is a gray that does not change shades and that has no depth. I begin to see, through the dissipating thickness of fog and haze outside the window, that it is going to be a clear and marvelous, if frigid, day. Itâs a shame there isnât a way to get outside for a few minutes. Itâs a shame there isnât something like a prison yard, surrounded by high fences and barbed wire, guard towers, whatever it takes, in which travelers could be free to walk in circles, breathe the air, and get sun on their faces.
The nausea from hunger finally becomes acute pain in my stomach. I feel dulled and dizzy and sick. I stop and bend over, with my hands on my hips, and Trish and my father stop and wait. I must be sweating. I sense that Iâve begun to stink a little. You look green, says Trish. Itâll pass, I say. I mean really green, she says.
I realize that this is my opportunity to get away from them. I am not annoyed with them, I am merely exhausted, and want some solitude. Iâve got to go to the bathroom, I say.
Weâll wait here for you, she says.
No, go and try to find some seats, Iâll text you and find you when Iâm out.
My father says nothing, but he takes his saggy leather carry-on from me. Trish immediately takes it from him and throws it over her shoulder.
Okay, says Trish to me, weâll see if we can find something.
They are a hard-to-miss pair in a German airport, but in no time they are swallowed up by the crowds, and I lose them. Iâve grown so accustomed to the nausea caused by hunger that I no longer instinctively want to eat, or feel I should eat. I have learned, over the last few days, that if you can withstand the wave of pain that hunger causes, the nausea itself becomes a sort of nourishment, and the longer I can withstand the waveâespecially if I can keep from getting sickâthe more enriched I feel. During our second week here, we fattened ourselves like swine. We ate pork sausages and Bratkartoffeln and drank wheat beer for breakfast. In our car, as we drove around from old towns to forts to old cathedrals, we ate cakes and Danishes and ice cream, and played silly songs on the radio and talked with our mouths full. I bopped the steering wheel along to the music. My father splurged on a comfortable midsize Toyota Camry with automatic transmission. It was black. I kept saying, apropos of nothing, This is one sweet ride, or, I love to drive. Once I threw the keys at a hotel bellhop, then shot him with my finger, like a cowboy. We ate pizza slices and cheeseburgers along the motorway. But now, here, in the airport, I realize that I am not going to be able to withstand the nausea and I need to throw up. I am perspiring now, all over, and I have stomach cramps, and Iâve gone very weak and hollow. I get my carry-on and roll it toward the bathroom. My father, smartly, packed his gigantic coat into his check-in luggage, but I didnât notice this at the time or perhaps I thought my coat might come in useful, or maybe I was still just really cold, but now I have to wear it or carry it. Iâm wearing a suit jacket, sweater, and a shirt already. The menâs room has a short line for the stalls, and also a long but swiftly moving line for the urinals. The two lines separate at the door, and every once in a while somebody comes in, bypasses both lines, realizes his mistake, and leaves. The floor of the place is a little wet and the trash of toilet paper and paper toilet-seat covers is strewn around a bit. It isnât hideous or unexpected, but my nausea makes it difficult to bear. There is also the quake, the trembling hands and chattering teeth that flow out of a disagreeable emptiness that is nearly, I donât know, not quite in your gut, but in your hips, and also your teeth and ears and feet. And the headache that stabs at the eyes and makes the top of your head tingle and prick, and that ibuprofen
The nausea from hunger finally becomes acute pain in my stomach. I feel dulled and dizzy and sick. I stop and bend over, with my hands on my hips, and Trish and my father stop and wait. I must be sweating. I sense that Iâve begun to stink a little. You look green, says Trish. Itâll pass, I say. I mean really green, she says.
I realize that this is my opportunity to get away from them. I am not annoyed with them, I am merely exhausted, and want some solitude. Iâve got to go to the bathroom, I say.
Weâll wait here for you, she says.
No, go and try to find some seats, Iâll text you and find you when Iâm out.
My father says nothing, but he takes his saggy leather carry-on from me. Trish immediately takes it from him and throws it over her shoulder.
Okay, says Trish to me, weâll see if we can find something.
They are a hard-to-miss pair in a German airport, but in no time they are swallowed up by the crowds, and I lose them. Iâve grown so accustomed to the nausea caused by hunger that I no longer instinctively want to eat, or feel I should eat. I have learned, over the last few days, that if you can withstand the wave of pain that hunger causes, the nausea itself becomes a sort of nourishment, and the longer I can withstand the waveâespecially if I can keep from getting sickâthe more enriched I feel. During our second week here, we fattened ourselves like swine. We ate pork sausages and Bratkartoffeln and drank wheat beer for breakfast. In our car, as we drove around from old towns to forts to old cathedrals, we ate cakes and Danishes and ice cream, and played silly songs on the radio and talked with our mouths full. I bopped the steering wheel along to the music. My father splurged on a comfortable midsize Toyota Camry with automatic transmission. It was black. I kept saying, apropos of nothing, This is one sweet ride, or, I love to drive. Once I threw the keys at a hotel bellhop, then shot him with my finger, like a cowboy. We ate pizza slices and cheeseburgers along the motorway. But now, here, in the airport, I realize that I am not going to be able to withstand the nausea and I need to throw up. I am perspiring now, all over, and I have stomach cramps, and Iâve gone very weak and hollow. I get my carry-on and roll it toward the bathroom. My father, smartly, packed his gigantic coat into his check-in luggage, but I didnât notice this at the time or perhaps I thought my coat might come in useful, or maybe I was still just really cold, but now I have to wear it or carry it. Iâm wearing a suit jacket, sweater, and a shirt already. The menâs room has a short line for the stalls, and also a long but swiftly moving line for the urinals. The two lines separate at the door, and every once in a while somebody comes in, bypasses both lines, realizes his mistake, and leaves. The floor of the place is a little wet and the trash of toilet paper and paper toilet-seat covers is strewn around a bit. It isnât hideous or unexpected, but my nausea makes it difficult to bear. There is also the quake, the trembling hands and chattering teeth that flow out of a disagreeable emptiness that is nearly, I donât know, not quite in your gut, but in your hips, and also your teeth and ears and feet. And the headache that stabs at the eyes and makes the top of your head tingle and prick, and that ibuprofen
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