To borrow Heidi’s quip, only in Marin County can you be sitting in your own car, parked by the side of the road, enjoying an impromptu picnic of Vietnamese chicken salad and grilled beef, and some bouncy baby boomer will seek you out to tell you that eating meat is bad for you. Thanks, healthy dude. You’re 50, and I’m not. (Heidi and I were suitably unimpressed–I kept gnawing my beef chunk while Heidi shoveled down her salad, saying “Uh-huh. Yeah. Cool” to all his proselytizing about the “liquid body” health program that “honors and respects” the fact that our bodies are 70 percent water. Fortunately the guy thought we were lesbians after a bit, so he jogged off.)

On the other hand, for all that I snark about the California “I hear you” culture, I did get some excellent medical care–or at least some medical care that didn’t make me feel like I was just a pain in the doctor’s ass, which seems to be standard NYC style. I still have no idea why I had a fever and my leg started hurting like crazy, but at least it wasn’t deep-vein thrombosis, which really would’ve thrown my whole travel-writing career into the shit. I got the chilled-outest ultrasound ever, complete with candlelight and ambient whale noises, and then this buff, tan doctor looked thoughtful and asked me lots of relevant-seeming questions and confirmed that I was not crazy for coming to the ER. That makes up for a lot of mysterious pain.

Maybe I _should_ stop eating meat, or at least start drinking a lot more water? Arg. I would respect and honor my dehydration, except my bladder is so small.