Jetlag is such a strange experience. Rather than simply feeling tired at the wrong times, I find myself in the middle of the day unable to walk or interact, yet sleep seems to flirt half a moment out of reach. I lie in bed with sweating shins, staring at the ceiling in a queer sort of semi-somniferous dream state. Moments and concepts mingle like different colored smokes and I float at the cusp of lucidity, drifting in and out with the tides of sleep. When I finally rise, I have no concept of time whatsoever, and I would as much believe that I had been down for 20 minutes as that I had missed a whole day and was feared deceased.

This is what the ceiling above my bed looks like at the R&Breakfast in Roeselare.

I suppose that the better way is to fight the thing. To drink coffee and stay active throughout the daylight hours, and waking for the day at 3 a.m. to remain still, count the breaths, and trust that sleep will come. I struggle to do that, because as much as I like coffee, I love napping. And in the midst of a jetlag nap it is as though I’m napping like my life depends on it. That’s how good it is.