It’s mid-December 2020, and Christmas is approaching. I’m still in Tbilisi, Georgia, waiting for the pandemic to ease up. The Coke-museum is still nowhere to be found.
Sometimes I look at what other travelers are doing on the interwebs, and I get jealous when I see them pretending as if the pandemic didn’t exist. Turkey, of all places, has made tourists exempt from their anti-Corona measures. This means things such as lockdowns and curfews don’t apply to foreigners in Turkey, and if you’re one of them and you don’t give a fuck about anything, you can have lots of fun there right now.
Meanwhile, hospitals are being overwhelmed, and people are dying.
I don’t know what to say.
In other news, I have recently moved out of my old apartment and into a place that has a bit more sun. The cats seem to love it:
Coco, Toto, and Gogra are here with me. Gogita Gogidze didn’t want to come. She is used to the old yard, and she doesn’t like to be around other cats, even if they are her own kids. And so I go and feed her whenever I can. Also, the neighbors give her food, and she’s been looking pretty fluffy and relaxed lately:
One good thing that happened to me was this: a nice person called Hannah from Sweden, upon hearing that it was difficult for me to find adequate Christmas cookies here in Georgia, sent me a care package:
Now on to the reason why I look so shitty:
I have Corona.
It started with a major headache, muscle aches, and a temperature of 37,5. I got my PCR test result a few days later. Since then, I’ve developed a light cough, and I’ve lost my sense of smell, but my overall symptoms have been getting better.
In addition to taking my temperature several times a day, I’ve been using this thing to measure my blood oxygen:
Everything seems okay, but on an emotional level, it’s been a bit of a ride. There were moments of exhilaration, when it felt as if the sword of Damocles had finally dropped, and it wasn’t so bad after all. But there were also moments of fear, when a strange feeling in the chest seemed to indicate impending doom.
Mostly, though, the diagnosis has prompted me to critically re-examine my own behavior over the last few weeks. I’m glad for the moments when I was wearing my mask, and I regret the instances when I wasn’t careful enough, possibly passing it on to others.
This sense of worry is weighing on me.
By the way, Coco says hi, and that we should all just wear our fucking masks:
After all, his name is Corona.