I broke my wrist.
I broke my wrist on Wednesday, planning to leave for London on Monday.
I broke my wrist on Wednesday, planning to leave for London on Monday, attend a masked ball ballet on Thursday, after visiting the queen’s gallery.
I wanted to meet an old dear friend and his dog, visit museums and gardens galore, and see how many cake shops and tea rooms I could visit.
I was going to research in the British library, see a scholar on south asian art, but I broke my wrist on Wednesday.
I uploaded the London transport app, the London bus app, trip-mapper, and culture whisperer with high hopes, or no hopes because it was practical. I bookmarked a dozen or more must-see lists.
Then I was going to fly to Moscow, visit St Basil’s, the kremlin, go for a banya, drink at the metropole, flood instagram with photos of old world Russian architecture from The Golden Ring. I planned to eat blini. dark sweet bread. Food from Georgia. But for the wrist.
I planned to return to London, see Mark Rylance in Othello, hear Sir Simon Brattle conduct at Royal Albert Hall, and return, sated, tired, and fully limbed.
That was the plan… but my tryst was with a trying wrist.