Mid-morning Monday, I got a headache. I get headaches sometimes. If they last for more than an hour or so, I take a couple of ibuprofen, which usually does the trick, but this headache lingered throughout the afternoon and evening. I was due to go to Houston on Tuesday, so I turned in early. I woke in the middle of the night, and the headache was even worse. Robbi plied me with Motrin, and eventually I got back to sleep. I drove to the airport early the next morning. My mission was to moderate some focus groups of high school students and parents, doing market testing of some college recruitment materials. I figured that surely the headache would lift by the time I got to Houston.

I should have known when I passed the Chipotle at BWI and didn’t feel like eating one that things were not quite right.

By the time I got to New Orleans, where I was to catch a plane to Jackson, I was worried that things were going in the wrong direction.

By the time I got to Jackson, I knew that there was no hope of me directing two 90-minute back-to-back discussions. I took a cab to my hotel and immediately went to bed.

It was 3:30 in the afternoon.

I did not eat my pre-warmed complimentary cookie.

There were five lovely pillows.

They did nothing to curb my despair. My head felt like the wrong end of a mosh pit. I could not read, watch TV, or listen to music. But neither could I really sleep. My head hurt too much. Eventually, I must have slept, because eventually it was 4:15 am and time to leave for the airport.

I flew back to Baltimore, where Robbi came to get me, afraid that I wouldn’t be able to drive back over the Bay Bridge. Instead of going home, we drove north. Why in the world would we do this? Because the next day (Thursday) was one of the most important days of our Idiots’ lives.

I held my head miserably in my hands as Robbi barreled north on I-95. Eventually we got to New York. As soon as we did, I went straight to bed. Things were improving, but not at a satisfying rate.

And then came the morning. The third morning of “The Headache,” as I will always remember it. This morning was like a break in the storm. It was still raining, but the wind had died down and there was a hint of sunshine behind the still-gloomy clouds.

Our first meeting was at one of the big publishing houses. We were meeting with an editor to discuss the manuscript of a children’s book we pitched a while back.

There lobby looks not much like ours.

The meeting went very well. We got outstanding feedback and excellent suggestions for improving the manuscript. We have our fingers crossed that we might someday find our book sitting in their beautiful lobby.

From there, we walked north, awed by the glass mountains that surrounded us.

Charmed by the retro type on the Bloomingdale’s building.

And generally enjoying the sorts of things that just aren’t found in Chestertown.

Our second meeting was at the Society of Illustrators, a club/museum/resource for illustrators.

Their mission is simple and noble.

The ground floor (open to the public) is a museum and gift shop. The third floor is a dining room…

…and a beautiful bar.

Not an officially advertised restaurant, the dining room is open to the public and serves a reasonably priced and absolutely delicious buffet lunch.

We were there to catch up with our friend, the illustrator (and director of the graduate illustration program at Fashion Institute of Technology) Melanie Reim.

She drew our attention to something wonderful.

An old drum signed by some of the luminaries of the illustration world: Al Hirschfeld, Milton Glaser, Norman Rockwell and the like.

Somehow, whenever we talk to Melanie, great ideas bubble up from somewhere. Without really trying, she helped us solve one thorny problem and come up with at least four new ideas for fun projects that we  don’t have time to execute but probably will try to execute anyway.

Then we hopped on a train and went south to Astor Place.

We popped out near Cooper Union, that wonderful school that has been tuition-free for so long and, apparently, will soon have to start charging its students. In protest, Robbi jumped over the building.

I know, I know, you’re probably thinking, “Lordy, is that a terrible jump.” Although I agree with you and share your disgust, I ask you to let Robbi rest on her laurels. She was quite proud of her “jump,” and I wouldn’t want to spoil her fun.

Fun which continued when we stumbled upon Zoltar. THE Zoltar!

Convinced that Tom Hanks must be lurking nearby, Robbi stubbornly refused to budge from the spot. Until I reminded her that we had one more meeting left on the day’s agenda.

Our destination: this nondescript door on 7th street.

The second floor just happens to be home to none other than the Princeton Architectural Press, a publisher that produces absolutely gorgeous books on architecture, design, photography, landscape, and visual culture.

They are, along with Chronicle, one of the publishers whose work we love best.

Which is why it makes so much sense to us that the publicist for the Chronicle version of Ten Thousand Stories happens to work for both Princeton Architectural Press and Chronicle.

Here are their offices. The pressed-tin ceiling just fits the feel of their brand. To spend one’s day surrounded by rows and rows of beautiful books…I could get used to it.

We met with the publicist, whose name was Diane, to learn about the upcoming adventures in publicity land. The first step, apparently, is trying to get the attention of magazines who are currently planning the issues that will coincide with our book’s release, which is October of 2013. Over the next couple of weeks, our publicist will be trying to convince all sorts of folks of the novelty and merits of our book. I’m so glad she’ll be doing it. And I’m just as glad that we won’t have to. As much as we love making stuff, we’re equally averse to trying to get other people to like what we make as much as we do. As our publication date draws nearer, all sorts of other publicity work will happen. We might, for example, take a “blog tour.” We might develop a trailer for the book that could be pushed via social media. We might answer questions from friends and fans via Google Hangout. All sorts of things that have never occurred to us to do.

On the way back to our friend David’s house in the West Village, we stopped to contemplate the signage.

And then we got the heck out of dodge.

By the time we emerged from the tunnel into the welcoming arms of New Jersey, my headache was all but gone. Whether it had simply run its course or whether the day’s run of good meetings helped drive the ill humors from my being I don’t know. And I don’t care. I am just so glad to feel better again.

When we pulled into town around 8:30, Alden and Kato had departed the premises.

August, for his part, was still going strong, still proudly wearing the princess sticker that Alden had given him before losing consciousness.

Good riddance, headache. You were a terrible guest and are not welcome back.

And thank you, New York, for a very good day. Bit by bit, you’re growing on me.