Saga-lag

Hell thy name is jet-lag. 
So by the time we landed in Marseilles we thought we had done pretty well; the two inches of snow in Toronto had dominoed into a seven hour layover at Heathrow, which meant that we didn't get to our hostel until about ten thirty that night. Feeling like we had thwarted the 3 pm black hole of jet-laggy lethargy that my mother had warned us about, we collapsed. And didn't set an alarm. Seventeen hours later, I wake up and check my watch. I figure it must have stopped so I check Brock's watch. Can two watches stop at the same time? The odds are thin, but surely it's possible....except... the hands are moving. It's really 3:30 pm. So we laugh it off, Ha ha, silly us. 
Such folly.
Four nights later, we still toss and turn. We try everything: counting sheep, counting backwards, counting by sevens, Ipods, laptops, meditation, oceans sounds.... and in the bitter watches of the night, new and unconventional practices take form ( "hey, could you maybe press on my neck for a while? like, just until I'm unconscious"). When we finally do sleep, it's broken and restless. We get maybe one or two solid hours per night. And yet, when five o'clock rolls around, we're powerless to resist the afternoon nap, even though we know what's going to happen. Weak. 
Silver lining: When you sleep through breakfast and dinner, you end up saving lots on food. For those concerned that we can't figure out how to eat or sleep on our own, rest assured that we're aces at breathing, blinking, and walking (if not so aces at talking). 

p.s. I'll go ahead and consider myself exempt from any critique on my rhetorical style; this post coalesced at around three this morning. 

Lauren