I’m pretty sure I smell like feet. Oooh, hey! Isn’t that a pretty picture from the botanical garden? See, even you weren’t distracted enough by the beauty of Barcelona not to notice how much I smell like feet. And it isn’t even my feet. My socks are clean and smell strongly of that super harsh, gritty Tide detergent we picked up in London.

It’s everything else.

Like the clothes I climbed Montjuic in. Who came away from the botanical garden smelling anything but fresh n’ flowery? That’d be me. And the hostal doesn’t have laundry facilities. In fact, the whole city seems to be without a single laundromat. From what I understand, if you search very hard, you can find someone to pay to do your laundry for you, but I don’t have that kind of energy. No more searching. More siesta-ing.

So, I washed my clothes in the shower.

I noticed yesterday how the tub takes a long time to drain after I shower, so why not pretend to shower with the express purpose of backing up the tub, adding a bit of detergent, and getting some clean jeans? Why not, indeed. It was that or wait ’til Italy. And I guarantee no one wants to sit next to me on a train to Italy, smelling of feet as I do.

Or did. Because right now, I smell fine. I am, however, stark just naked waiting for my clothes to dry.

Menos mal

Friday, October 26, 2007 | stories