110. No clothes

We got back to the hotel to learn that Lenore had complained to the manager about the bed bugs, and they’d taken all of our bedding and clothing. They gave us new rooms on a different floor, which was nice of them, but now what was I supposed to wear?

“The clothes have to be quarantined for six weeks before they are safe to wear again,” Lenore told us. “That or burned.”

So I wear this damn green shirt for the rest of the trip, huh? That’s two weeks straight, and not two weeks of sitting at home writing at my laptop but two sweaty weeks of voyaging around. Not that I’m the only one suffering—mustn’t be selfish—as poor Burbank’s chosen a rather slimming t-shirt that will do him no good when we get to the less tropical regions of Germany and Ireland.

Burbank told me that he’d read in the news of a village somewhere in New Zealand or Australia or somewhere that completely ran out of underpants. Citywide crisis, honest! So this preacher man journeyed to the city and distributed free underpants for everyone. What I wouldn’t give for a savior like that right now.