The promise

Upon arrival, I began opening drawers as many travelers do, in a search to safely store my delicates. In the back of the first drawer I encountered a pair of socks. I gingerly picked them up, and only after a moment was hit by the most remarkable stink I may have ever encountered. Keep in mind that I have worked with the homeless, and do not throw around terms like 'remarkable stink' lightly. What was so extraordinary was that such a large smell came from so small an item. I began gagging uncontrollably and shouting loudly, until my mother ran in with a garbage bag. Unwilling to keep them in the house, even in a protective plastic covering, I threw them out the window and into the Roman slum below. But the smell remained--it had transferred to my hand in some horrific noxious, cosmic joke. My sense of smell is admittedly delicate--this is one reason that I decided on my current career choice. When presented with two job offers, one in field that involves me wearing dress shirts and making powerpoint presentations and the other working with homeless teens, I chose the path of least nasal offense.

After the incident with the socks, I scrubbed a number of layers of flesh off my skin just to be certain, and thought the matter was done with. Little did I know that the socks were a portentous predictor of my trip and Rome in general. I don't understand enough about plumbing to explain it fully, but apparently there are some major differences between the American and the Italian plumbing system; allegedly there are no 'traps' here, and therefore each toilet leads directly to some general stinkhole below the city where the stinks gather and fester, and then rise back up through the pipes and back into people's houses. This seems to affect most of the population, as I've smelled this same, sewer-y smell in the streets, in stores, and even the houses of those wealthy enough to afford any number of scented candles. However, I (and perhaps my mother and brother) seem to be the only one bothered by this odiforous problem as I see a sea of calm Italian faces wherever I go, while my nose constantly twitches in the aromatic trauma of being exposed to the funk of 40,000 years. This is perhaps what is most traumatic about the situation, no one seems to realize the horror they are living in and go about their daily lives, content.

A birthday update and the ways I have tried to abate the smell through creative uses of vomit coming at you the next time I get internet access.