I woke up yesterday morning with that wet-tissue-ish skin on my lips; the bits of skin that have peeled off, that indicate you’re ill. Nothing major, just a bit of a cold, I suspect. But I spent the whole day in bed. My muscles ached, I had that constant pain across my forehead and eyes, and I had a bit of a fever. I lay there with the remote control in my hand, flicking through the channels.
I watched one half of Fiorentina v Torino. I watched a Fox Sports “news” show that rounded up all the relevant football action from Mexico, Argentina, Spain, England, and Italy; some tennis stuff; and the latest couple of NFL play-offs. I watched an episode of “Friends” with Spanish subtitles which helped me understand a few new words.
I watched something that smelled like an MTV show, although it was on a different channel here, called Miami Ink (this may be a popular well-known show for all I know, but as someone who rarely watched TV in Berlin, I have no idea). This was one of those new types of documentaries that seem to be have become all the rage in the last ten years or so. A bunch of tattooed people tattooing other people, each of whom came into the shop with some crappy piece of reference material (Old English typefaces, hotrods, band logos, pictures of flowers), and each of whom has some deep reason for wanting the tattoo, which we’re supposed to care about. One guy wanted Saint Michael on his arm, because his name was Michael too, and he wanted it to remind him that he’d beaten cancer as a child so, by looking at the tattoo, he’d remember he could overcome any problem. I don’t know about you, but if I’d had cancer and overcome it, I wouldn’t need a tattoo to remind me: Oh damn, it looks like I might lose my job, I dunno how I will cope… if only there was something in my past that I could look to to gain strength from… there was something… when I was younger… what the heck was it?… aaah, thank you tattoo-on-my-shoulder, now I remember! It was cancer!
And I saw about half a dubbed-into-Spanish episode of “The A-Team” (“Brigada A” en Español) which I don’t remember seeing as a kid. They seemed to be in Germany, and B.A. was in the U.S. team playing American football against an East German team. Guess who scored the winning touchdown in the final seconds of the game. Hannibal was sat around in the stands with some military-looking dudes. Murdoch was off somewhere else doing something or other, and I only saw Face at the end with some fraulein on a motorbike, when the chaps all escaped in a helicopter under a hail of gunfire. How strange it all seems now, nearly 20 years on from the end of the GDR, that such we-beat-the-Commies stuff was on TV. I wonder if there’d be a similar A-Team episode now if it was still on, just with Iran instead of East Germany. Probably.
Mostly, though, I sweated and groaned my way through the day and night; and today I checked into a hotel to allow myself to recover without getting in the way of my gracious host. I still feel like turd but can’t bear to be just lying in bed any more, it’s driving me a bit mental, especially considering there’s a big chunk of Mexican-ness outside the window. But, I suppose I’ll get better quicker if I do confine myself to the hotel room. Plus there’s a steam bath in this hotel, which might help; and I’ve never done one of those before, so maybe I should give it a go.