Face-down, Listless in Novosibirsk

So my feelings of sickness yesterday were apparently not produced by too much Baltika the night before. Most of today's afternoon has been spent face down, drooling, in my pillow in Room 810 of the Hotel Sibir. I am not redline sick, just listless and dulled, drifting back into another hour of sleep just as I thought I was awaking. The walk to this internet cafe just six blocks away was more difficult than it should've been. The weather grey, the people sullen, my legs muddy. It is unnaturally cold here. Yes, hello, it is Siberia, but an August day is still supposed to be warmish this time of year. I don't really have a frame of reference as this is the deepest in the calendar I've been in Russia. August's monthlong vacation winds down as citizens return to work, to school, to their routines.

My self-diagnosis thus far has me in a superposition of the following states:

[State A] Midwestern allergies reawakened in the plains of Siberia
Evidence: Waking with yellow-crusted eyes and more phlegm than humanly normal

[State B] Mis/malnourishment due to Rod's Eastern Europe diet, devoid of protein (goodbye Clif bars!) and an abundance of slimy potatoes
Evidence: Waking with pinkish, oily blemishes on forehead and nose

[State C] Diet-borne microorganisms in my bloodstream, straining my once impenetrable immune system
Evidence: Unusually colored items in commode

Tomorrow morning I board a 757 bound for Bishkek, the first of my Central Asia stopovers. I carry more dread than usual since I'm not even close to being at 100% and, from my substantial prior experience being hauled around in ex-Soviet flying carriages, the flight will not be pleasant. Humid, creaky cabin, noisy engines, people smacking their meat while licking their fingers, the people pushy and pungent. Once landed, luggage carts will be impossibly loaded with suitcases, boxes and bags, all hermetically sealed with the ubiquitous blue shrinkwrap, half of which will be strategically aimed for the back of my ankles. Put-upon babushkas will elbow their way to the baggage claim, secretly longing for the sweet relief of death's finger. Since my unshaven complexion has paled from brownish to greenish-white, the xenophobic stares will triple and the scaring of Slavonic children will be my only reward.

I am just a little uneasy because Novosibirsk was intended to be the safe, familiar staging area before launching into unknown Kyrgyzstan, but right now I can barely draw the energy to type. For my loved ones, don't worry. As long as I'm not writing or quoting poetry, my superhuman metabolism will win the day.