Not that that was strictly unusual for me. I travel so often and so widely that I might at any time (for instance) wake up in a capsule hotel in Singapore, a “tree house” hotel in Harads, or a penthouse in Manhattan. I have friends all over the world. Waking up to an unfamiliar ceiling is de rigueur for me. This time, though, the experience was more unsettling than normal. Mostly because, as I blinked up at my room’s white-painted crown molding and mullioned widows (I apparently hadn’t even closed the curtains last night before collapsing into bed), I couldn’t remember, for an instant, how I’d gotten there. Alarmed, I sat bolt upright in bed. The motion made the room spin. My head ached, too. With a groan, I sank backward. I felt awful. If this was what came of drinking chocolate porter at noon, I needed to put the kibosh on that activity, stat. It didn’t seem likely that a mere three or four drinks could have created a hangover this severe, but I could barely tolerate opening my eyes to examine my surroundings again.
