A horrible feeling

I have a terrible night. Spending most of it coughing up my guts. Any relief from the cough medicine has only been temporary. Bum. At least I’m not in a rush.

I’m starting to worry about my cough. The burning sensation in my lungs is uncomfortably familiar. From the time I had pneumonia a couple of decades back. And it wasn’t diagnosed immediately. I recall coughing all through lunch at work. And that feeling just getting stronger and stronger inside my chest.

Trying to dispel such gloomy thoughts from my mind, I plod along for breakfast. Not that I’m even vaguely hungry. Some hydration and ballast are required for my rather long journey. I go through the motions with scrambled egg and cheese. Along with coffee and orange juice.

A breakfast of scrambled egg, cheese, coffee and orange juice.

I doodle on the internet for a little back in my room. Not much else to do before fucking off as I pretty well packed last night. At 9:30, I dawdle downstairs to check out.

Getting an Uber is a little frustrating, as the wifi keeps cutting out and I have to step back into the hotel. When I do manage to book one, the pickup point isn’t clear. A bit of a problem as I’m on the massive main drag.

I’m informed that my ride has arrived. Despite not being able to see the car anywhere. After a little walking around, it turns up where I expected it. Now there’s some stress I could have done without. Especially with all my luggage. And that burning feeling inside.

My stress levels increase when we don’t seem to be going the right way. Is that the runway already? That’s far too quick. Oh fuck. It’s the wrong airport.

“This isn’t the right airport.” I say to my driver. “I must have booked for the wrong one.”

“The international terminal is right here.”

“It’s the wrong airport.”

After a while, I get him to understand that I need to be at the other airport. It’s not easy, his English being limited and my Spanish non-existent. I agree to pay him in euros. We don’t mention an amount.  I hope have enough left.

“It takes 45 minutes.” My driver says. Just as well I set off hours early.

After a few minutes dodging along the motorway, the traffic thickens. Then starts clumping, sometimes coming to a total stop, 

“Just as well I left really early.” I think to myself reassuringly. While that horrible feeling grows in my chest.

My driver seems more than happy with the bunch of euros I thrust into his hands. I’m just grateful that he didn’t dump me at the wrong airport. Or worse, in the middle of nowhere. As I have no mobile data.

This trip hasn’t gone totally smoothly.

Even though I’ve just got my small wheelie bag, the walk through the airport’s fucking-around bits leaves me short of breath.

I don’t bother with any duty free. There’s aren’t any Argentinian spirits. Just international types and brands. What’s the point in buying Johnny Walker or Smirnoff?

Lounge empenadas and croissants.

The lounge is pretty quiet. Only a couple of other punters. I don’t feel much in the mood for food or drink. But, look! Free-pour spirits. I get some whisky. (Johnny Walker: I might not buy it, but I’ll drink it when it’s free.) Healthied up with some orange juice.

I don’t enjoy the walk to my gate. I do get a seat there, which is cool. Wouldn’t have felt up for much standing around.

Just after I’ve boarded, a flight attendant comes and tells the bloke next to me that she’s been able to get an upgrade for him and he fucks off to premium economy. He dodged a bullet there.

I do loads of coughing during boarding. And after take-off. I eat fuck all of the meal. All the coughing is making my stomach muscles really ache. After not eating, I get back into some really serious coughing.

It’s an uncomfortable flight. More like a nightmare for those seated around me, as I cough through the night. Pausing only for some restless sleep. Though, I’m probably coughing through that, too.

We park om the tarmac and are bussed to the terminal. Which, thankfully, removes some of the walking. And what walking I do, I take very slowly, so I don’t collapse panting on the floor.

No queue at passport control and I breeze through. At least, what passes for breezing in my wheezy, shuffling state.

Of course, it’s a bit of a walk to the luggage carousel. A very slow walk. I sit and have a good cough while I wait for the first bags to spill out.

With my bags loaded onto a cart, the walk to the taxi rank is a bit easier.  I only need to pause to cough half a dozen times or so on the way.

Back on our street, I have difficulty walking my luggage from taxi to front door. And opening said door. Dolores, waiting, as always with tea for me, notices something is wrong. That horrible burning feeling has grown even stronger. It’s been a horrible journey. Much worse than coming back from Salvador with a broken arm. That was a doddle, in comparison. A bit painful, but ay least I could fucking breathe.

“I think I’ve got pneumonia again.”

This time, I don’t fuck around and go straight to my doctor.