While I was in Thessaloníki for the book fair, discussing identity, my apartment in New York was flooded.
Apparently my neighbor was washing clothes in a bucket, but she was not aware of the fact that there was a hole in the bucket.
This story in my modest opinion is bizarre, but so are most stories about identity and most events at book fairs.
A small update on my health: I’m still coughing like a sick dog. This is not an excellent state of mind to approach strangers with an unusual request or to be approached by strangers with an unusual request for that matter.
(On a philosophical scale it is helpful. The identity of my body is that of a sick dog, why would I aspire to something higher?)