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Dude…You Stink
And other stories from the adventure travel road
My mother had a very sensitive schnozz. Growing up, her ability to smell cigarette, and later, pot smoke on my big brother’s clothing was legendary. He couldn’t get away with anything around her. Nobody could. She could snort out the last vestiges of a roach fourteen days after Peter had finished it off, and he would be grounded yet again.
My father didn’t suffer the same problem. He was guilty of farts that could peel the paint off a foot locker, and proud of them. We had a bulldog, which are notoriously foul farters. When the bulldog hurtles out of the room after you fart, dude, you stink.
I inherited those uber-sensitive nostrils, which, when you travel abroad, can be a problem.
For those of you who have, as I have, climbed onto local busses in Third World countries, the odors that can assault the senses are astounding in their variety and intensity.
I’m not addressing spicy food here. Since many folk travel with their farm animals on board, you are as likely to encounter eau de pig shit as you are eau de onions, or eau de overflowing baby diaper.