Reverse Jet Lag Blues (Dispatch from the Bardo of Timezones)

Part One of the “Spain-Morocco Chronicles" a Jazz Traveler in Exile

What time is it, anyway?

No, really—what time is it? Not in the abstract metaphysical sense (though sure, that too), but in this precise, ticking, calendar-bound, late-capitalist dimension we allegedly inhabit.

My body says it’s noon. My phone says 2:07 A.M. My stomach is suspicious of both.

We just crash-landed back in Mexico City after three weeks ricocheting across Spain and Morocco—Madrid to Fez, Marrakech, Escouria. We traveled by plane, train, taxi, camel and foot. Time lost all meaning somewhere around Granada, and now that we’re “home,” I feel like I left my circadian rhythm in a public restroom at the Marrakesh airport.

Let’s rewind.

Yesterday? The day before? Who knows. Sometime recently, we boarded a twelve-and-a-half-hour flight from Madrid—the kind of long-haul ordeal that transforms normal humans into dried-out, semi-conscious seat zombies.

Cramming ourselves into a metal sardine can full of coughing strangers? Yeah, not our brightest move.

Meanwhile, I watched the in-flight map crawl over the Atlantic like a dying pixel worm while my digestive system hosted a riot, a direct consequence of one last Moroccan meal that turned out to be the culinary equivalent of a Molotov cocktail.

We were both recovering from a brief but baroque episode of food poisoning, the kind that turns stomachs into Albert Ayler solos—erratic, emotional, and improvisational. I suspect it was something I ate in Fez, or the raw sea urchin in Escouria, or maybe it was that final goodbye falafel in the Marrakech medina. All I know is that my intestines spent the last 36 hours performing Ascension by John Coltrane with an extended Elvin Jones solo.

The flight was a blur: sleep in ten-minute bursts, fitful dreams of getting lost in Andalusian alleyways, waking up to bread rolls that taste like printer paper and coffee brewed from sorrow. Still, there was a strange comfort in the nowhere-ness of it all. No country. No language. Just engines, turbulence, and miles of cloud.

We touched down in Mexico City around 6 p.m., dazed, bruised, and full of invisible sand. Outside, rain drizzled over the capital, a film set in soft focus. The Uber from the airport slithered through traffic, wipers squeaking, brake lights bleeding into puddles. The city pulsed around us—massive, chaotic, indifferent. A neon bloodstream.

“It’s like Lost in Translation, but with salsa,” I muttered to Sherrie. “You mean the food or the music?” she asked. “Yes,” I replied.

By the time we reached our Airbnb in Roma Sur, my body was operating on the spiritual equivalent of dial-up internet. I figured I’d crash hard, recalibrate, wake up a new man with a healed gut and synced-up pineal gland.

Wrong.

I went horizontal at 9:00 p.m. and popped awake at 12:30 a.m. Not stirred. Not groggy.

Wide. Freaking. Awake.

And not just awake. Buzzing. My body whispered, “It’s afternoon in Madrid, amigo! Time for a walk and some churros!”

But my surroundings said, “You’re in bed, it’s dark, and there’s a dog barking like it’s chasing ghosts.”

That’s reverse jet lag—the cruel little cousin of jet lag. It’s not the brutal wall of exhaustion that hits you when you arrive somewhere new. It’s the subtle dislocation that creeps in after the adventure, when you’re supposed to be “back to normal,” but nothing fits anymore. Not your sleep, not your gut, not your concept of time or reality.

Jet lag is a hangover without the party. Reverse jet lag? It’s a lucid dream in a reality that doesn’t want you back.

So there I was: spiritually stuck between medinas and mercados, unsure if I wanted mint tea or tacos, wandering around our dark apartment like a man possessed by four different time zones.

I considered going for a walk. Mexico City has its magic in the wee hours. But also, let’s be real—2 a.m. is not the time for wandering unless you know your turf. This town is like New York: some blocks are cool jazz, others are punk rock with switchblades. I’ve lived here long enough to know the difference. Why play roulette with your kidneys?

So I stayed in and turned to my old friend: YouTube.

Jazz in the Early Hours—my holy playlist. Chet Baker. Bill Evans. Ahmad Jamal whispering through the fog of night, a ghost in a silk suit. Aural Valium. It wrapped around my nerves like warm flannel, smoothed out the static. Then I did some pranayama breathing—slow, deliberate, yogic inhales that reminded me I have a body and it’s not entirely hostile.

I’ve been studying Yin Yoga the past few months. It’s not the Insta-flexibility stuff—no contortionist selfies or sun salutations on mountaintops. It’s stillness. Long, slow holds. Silence. Breath. The opposite of speed. Perfect for someone who just spent three weeks mainlining overstimulation.

So I breathed. I listened. I surrendered.

Somewhere between trumpet solos and the rise and fall of my breath, I started to drift—not quite asleep, but no longer awake. A liminal zone. A floating space between continents, between selves.

And there it was: peace. Not clarity. Not closure. Just peace. The soft landing of a mind no longer trying to be in any particular place.

This is only the beginning.

Over the next weeks, I’ll be sharing the raw, uncooked stories of our trip through Spain and Morocco—the beauty, the chaos, the scams, the food, the music, the people, the spiritual moments, the cultural earthquakes, and of course the jazz that followed me everywhere like a holy specter.

This isn’t a travel guide. It’s a transmission.

From the road.

From the sky.

From the Bardo of in-between lives, time zones, and truths.

I’ve clocked a decent amount of mileage over the years, but lately—post-pandemic, post-reason, post-empire—I’ve been traveling more. Not just to change scenery, but to see the world with cleaner eyes.

Once upon a time, before the internet, it was easy to vanish. You could hit the road and disappear into the fog of foreign languages and foreign smells, return months later without a clue who died, who got indicted, or what new level of hell broke loose in the homeland.

But now? There’s no escape.

Even if I barely scroll, even if I limit my Wi-Fi exposure like a monk dodging temptation, the tentacles of doom still creep in.

America follows you like a jealous ex.

Glowing headlines. Push notifications. Nervous glances from café owners when they hear your accent.

At one point, I mentioned to a couple of friends how different the U.S. looks from this side of the Atlantic—and Bob, an old showbiz pal, fired back:

“Jesus, Bret. You’re on vacation. Can’t you just turn it off?”

No.

I tried. Really, I did. Kept it on mute, subtitles off. But truth has a way of bleeding through the borders.

So when people asked where I was from, I didn’t say “the U.S.”

I said, “I live in Mexico.”

Short answer. Fewer questions. Less awkward silence.

More on the insanity of American life as seen from afar in future transmissions.

For now, I’ll leave you with this: Sometimes you have to leave the empire to see just how cracked the foundation really is.

Until we meet again, let your conscience be your guide.