I have the flu. As Jimmy Buffett once said, "My head, hearts, my feet stink, and I don't love Jesus." It sucks.
One thing that my travels have taught me is that there is no better place to be sick than at home. It's better than any cheap motel or overcrowded hostel in the world. Here is an excerpt from a column I wrote about being sick on the road:
Hovering or squatting over stained porcelain, you watch your life force pass into foreign plumbing of varying degrees of inefficiency. You wish for a quick painless death to end the suffering, and a cup of your mother’s homemade chicken noodle soup to wet your quivering lips, but neither come. Thoughts of your own porcelain throne, as well as a few good sheets of 2-ply toilet paper, drift just beyond hope, in the realm of the divine. You’re sick and you’re alone in a foreign land.