"We're looking for Pineola," I said, giving the town an extra syllable.

"That's Pine-ola," the man said.

"No wonder I couldn't find it."

After he told me where it was, I asked how far we were from Boone. "Did I pronounce that right?" I asked. "Now I may take offense at that," he said, almost smiling.

He'd been here since 1973. "This place is paradise," he said.

"Where are you from originally?" I asked. "Charlotte." "I meant the town, not the womb." (Actually, I didn't say that.)

He asked where I was from. "Originally, New Jersey." "That's your problem," he said. "Half the people here are from New Jersey. They go to Florida first and then come up here."

"Guess where I live now," I said. He gave me a perfect "Lord-help-us" look.

Give it your best shot: Where is Tom Swick?

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Some thoughts:

This stone is hanging around longer than Hillary Clinton.

Pain is especially annoying for writers because it's so difficult to describe. In the hospital they, wisely, take it out of the realm of language and put it into that of numbers: 1-10.

I've discovered a great way to get rid of telemarketers: Tell them you're having a kidney stone attack. They immediately apologize for bothering you and wish you well. Try it the next time somebody interrupts your dinner.

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Yesterday I left the office early and went home to work on my new memoir about a man's heroic battle with his kidney stone, tentatively titled "Drink, Pee, Scream."

But, concerned about finding the right publisher, I put it aside and picked up Ryszard Kapuscinski's Travels with Herodotus. I slipped on some Bach arias and went out to read on the balcony. It was a gorgeous spring afternoon, one of our last before humidity comes in for its six-month visit.

And as I sat there, listening to the exquisite voice of Elisabeth Schwarzkopf, reading about Kapuscinski's first visit to Egypt, I thought: This is what everyone needs once in a while - a break from the world, a moment to sit, removed from all responsibilities, pressures, demands. A time to appreciate being alive.

Later in the day I got a call from my friend David. I asked him if he'd ever had a kidney stone, and he said, yes, once, on an airplane. He described the experience - the pain, the confinement, the sweating, the stares from fellow passengers - and said that since then he has never flown without some morphine handy.

The next time I'm uncomfortable in coach (with luck, this Friday), I'm going to say to myself: I could be having a kidney stone attack. This should do more than the reinstatement of meal service to make me feel better.

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Sorry to have missed you on Friday. Thursday night, just as ER was coming on, Hania drove me, writhing in the passenger seat, to the ER.

(Typing that just now, I realized that only an 'h' keeps "writhing" from being "writing.")

I was given pain medication for a kidney stone and sent home, where I spent a kind of lost weekend - either writhing (not writing) in pain or feeling a combination of elation at the lack of pain and anxiety about the imminent arrival of more.

Lying in bed, I discovered the hazards of listening to oldies radio stations. Early last week I had heard a song I hadn't heard in years: The Ballad of the Green Berets, by Sgt. Barry Sadler. It ran nonstop through my head whenever the pain was at its worst. And, like the stone, it is still there, waiting to do its number.

So if you don't hear from me for a day or two, I've either gone to the hospital or gone insane.

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