I was in Las Vegas, where the medical care is so shoddy people joke that if you need to go to the emergency room, you should drive to the airport, so that’s more or less what I did. I flew to Los Angeles on a Sunday afternoon; my appointment with the specialist was early the next morning. The airport, usually abuzz with the sound of slot machines, also hummed that day with the chatter of Taylor Swift fans who had just attended her weekend concert. I could tell because they—they being adolescent girls in pastel clothing accompanied by fortysomething mothers in leggings and Ugg boots—were outfitted in various iterations of Taylor Swift merch: T-shirts on which her famous face peered Sphinxlike from beneath her famous bangs; sweatpants with her name emblazoned in white letters on one leg.
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