Travel

As I pulled the morning's last chart from its wooden cradle, I delighted in the prospect of seeing my patient Carl Swensen again. I was selfish: While hearing about Carl's health, I always learned something about life.

Our eyes met, and Carl nodded eagerly. Tangled, charcoal eyebrows brushed his thick, oil-smudged lenses. Bony shoulders angled forward, and slender fingers, pulled to the side by years of rheumatoid arthritis, curled around the corners of the examination table. Long legs hung from the wide silver buckle, engraved with the word Colorado, that indented his thin waist. Soft leather shoes sympathetically covered his feet.

“This ancient temple is crumbling, Doc,” he said, pushing each word out of the smile sculpted on his face.

I sensed the reason for his visit.

“Planning a trip, Carl?”

“Yes, and I want more injections”.

“Where are you going this time?”

“On a mystery tour. The travel club just said to bring warm clothes. Our last cold weather trip was to Kiev, …