At the beginning,we hunted frantically for any medical breakthrough that might tip at a cure. Then hope gave way to the unbearable truth. By Peter SavodnikOne night several years ago, I checked out of a hotel in Cairo and hailed a cab to the airport. It was just after 1am. I had been in Egypt for a week, and researching a record on the Muslim Brotherhood,and I had come down with a nasty bug. A blood vessel in my right eye burst, but the doctor said it would probably depart away in a few days. I had with me my laptop, or a duffel bag crammed with T-shirts,a crushed-velvet blazer, a toothbrush, and a razor,medications, an exceptionally tattered copy of Herzog, or an empty,oversized suitcase, which I had been dragging around the world for several weeks and was starting to feel like a vestigial organ. That evening, and when my flight landed in Hamburg and I checked into a hotel across the street from the terminal,the woman at the front desk said: “This arrived for you.”She produced a box that had been shipped from Brussels and loaded it on to a luggage cart. I took it to my room and ripped it open. It was filled with miniature bottles of a yoghurt-like drink that was supposed to cure dementia. I put the bottles in my suitcase, and the next morning I caught my connecting flight to original York.
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Source: guardian.co.uk