Brittany Bound on No Sleep

Without sleep a day becomes a fever dream within a few hours. Before we boarded our first plane, I took the highest recommended dose of the melatonin I had packed. It was branded as lavender honey melatonin, but instead it tasted like a cheap perfume called something like “Grandmother”. Having never taken melatonin before, my tolerance was low, and the melatonin hit me like a truck. The first plane can only be described as a lucid dream, in which, I was never more than 75 percent aware of my surroundings and was constantly confused by the inconsistencies in my reality due to my frequent yet insubstantial bouts of sleep. This was the narcolepsy faze. This brief (drug) trip had managed to destroy my sense of time, but as when we got out of the plane in Iceland my shattered sense of time was collected, put into a pestle, and mortared into a fine powder. My circadian rhythm was sure it was one in the morning and was trying to wrap its head around me watching the sunrise and eating a chicken wrap as well as me getting no more than three hours of sleep thus far in no more than 15 minute segments. I remember reading *Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas* and feeling completely in sync in with Raoul Duke and his brain addled by a cocktail of mescaline, acid, and ether. Only the inconsistencies of his world made sense to me anymore, whereas the lady asking for my passport was like calculous: at least mildly confusing. Despite the odds, I managed to clamber aboard our next airplane. To France! Not even three hours of sleep and metric tons of various sleeping aids could mask the palatable excitement among my compatriots. Even those folded like tray-tables on the tray-tables groping for sleep did so in a way that projected anticipation.
The third leg of our journey began with the engine of our van stalling while our fearless leader wrestled with our manual van (or as the Europeans call it, just “van”). But we didn’t stall for long. To be honest, I don’t remember the next eight hours very well. Somehow, they became one confusing memory of a landscape that, while beautiful, was a treadmill of rolling hills and frequent stops at gas stations that all looked eerily similar. The sun was the only way to track our progress as we shot up France to the coast. And then we were there. As I lay spread out and etherized in the backseat of our car the sunset guided us up the gravel road to the castle that would be our home. And a sweet home it was. After eight hours of driving, I was unconcerned with anything but laying horizontally. The castle offered not only that but a stove to make hot chocolate, and so, it was perfect.