Wednesday, 3:45 am. My airport chauffeur has arrived. Ooh fun, you’re thinking, maybe like me, associating middle of the night flights with Negronis by the pool, the satisfying thwack of balls being volleyed down at the beach.

Um, not exactly. I’m flying from Boston to New York for a PETscan, a requirement for my clinical trial and not, as one might suppose, a lifesaving treatment for the chihuahua I share my life with.

At the ungodly hour of 4:00 a.m I arrived at Boston Logan with a mere 209 minutes till takeoff, the concierge service having been ordered to book clients’ airport arrivals no less than three hours before takeoff and ideally four.

Aaah, the glamour of travel in the 2020’s.

The scan itself was uneventful – fifteen minutes having my head examined in the machine, followed by an hour of naptime, lather, rinse repeat three times. Before leaving the medical facility I was handed a document called a nuclear medicine patient travel letter, which stated that I’d received a minimal dose of radioactivity for the purpose of a medical research study and therefore I might trigger radiation detectors. I don’t remember the part of the consent form stipulating that I’d be transformed into some sort of human bomb. Fortunately, I boarded the plane and flew home without incident.

My chauffeur for the return trip to JFK was MIA at the scheduled time until I reached him by phone, whereupon he informed me that he’d been instructed to fetch me at the medical facility where I’d had my brain irradiated the previous day. He showed me his work order which indeed indicated the incorrect pickup location. Just the sort of professionalism one would expect from the international household name drug company that was sponsoring the clinical trial.

Would I ever get home? Or would I be forced to end my days sleeping near a chain coffee outlet, foraging for nourishment at the Starbucks hard by my gate. ( Once upon a time, a man ahead of me at an airport Starbucks informed the barista that he’d like a sconce. Tempted though I was, I refrained from engaging him in a discussion of the adequacy of airplane lighting.)

No trip report would be complete without a review of the accommodations, so here’s mine. After my pretrip research yielded the intel that my ho- I mean mo-tel featured no whirlpool (or pool of any kind), no sauna, no massage therapy ( well, perhaps some sort of massage service for those guests renting by the hour (ew), I reminded myself that this voyage was in the service of medical advancement and, of course, the diminution of those pesky Parkinsonian tremors I’d been gifted.

Upon arrival at my lodging after a day spent trapped in a device spitting radiation into my head, I went looking for something resembling a lobby. I entered the closest approximation of one through a plate glass door leading onto a roomlet the size of a phone booth. Here’s what one of those looked like.

I foolishly searched for a chair, but the sole feature of the “lobby” was a smaller phone both behind a glass barrier which I assumed was bulletproof for when the drug deals went down.

The desk clerk offered me a room on either the first or third floor. My osteoarthritic knees were killing me but not having agreed to any contractual obligation to witness a shootout occasioned by a drug deal gone bad, I opted for the punishment my aching joints would endure as I mounted the stairs to the third floor of this elevator-free hostelry. The upward hike was about as close to a spa I’d get this trip.

Before turning in for the night, I checked out the “level” of motel this was in the 26-hotel “family” of inns owned and operated by “my” host. I’m no prima donna, and hadn’t expected luxe accommodations – this trial was, after all, in the interest of science-but come on, international household name drug company, we clinical trial participants are volunteering our time and our bodies to help you make more money. I know, you’re taking financial risks. Still, please show some respect for your volunteers. I’d settle for level 15 in your hotel hierarchy. instead, you put me up in level 25 out of 26! Shame on you, international etc, etc.

After a gun-battle-free sleep, I arrived at JFK in plenty of time. These are the things I did while awaiting my flight:

1. Bathroom
2. Order breakfast
3. Eat breakfast
4. Take a little walk.
5. Read NYTimes on phone.
6. Gather belongings in slow, deliberate fashion.

Here is what I didn’t do:

1.Place phone atop counter, toilet paper holder, or other surface, and walk away.
2. Let phone out of sight or hand.
3.Lose a single goddamn thing at the airport. Nary a potato chip, credit card, book, or phone! Can you hear the exultation – the sheer joy in my heart – at this unprecedented occurrence?

I wondered why, on this of all trips, I was able to behave exactly the way I was supposed to- with calm, competence, and a level head. I told myself it was because the stakes were high. But that couldn’t be right. The stakes -mainly the loss of my phone – are high every single day; everyone knows the repurcusions of a lost phone.

I’ll not question this triumph nor will I rest on my laurels. If I experienced a loss-free day once, I can do it again. Yay, me!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!