June 2, 3:49pm, NY
I just finished what is likely to be my last shower for a week. The sweet smell of success is likely to be eclipsed by the sour stench of exhaustion in the coming days. In fact, I won't stop moving for the next two days. The next possible shower won't be until Marrakesh. Before that, I have an 8 hour plane ride, a 1/5 hour bus, a 2 hour ferry, 9 hours in Tangier, and 8 hours on a train to Marrakesh. Camels will smell like newborns compared to me. And newborns often smell like shit.
June 2, ??pm
The flight has been going well enough. I sort of wish there was a bunch of excitement or colorful characters. Well, I imagine that uneventful plane rides aren't the worst things.
June 3, feels like June 2, 7:30am, feels like 11pm.
Due to arrive shortly in Malaga. I feel like shit and I'm pretty sure I smell like it too. The Spanish women won't know what hit them. Neither did the Jerries at Ypres.
[Editor's Note: I enjoy obscure historical allusions almost as much as untranslated phrases. Honestly, I'm not looking to impress. Far from it. I think I do it because I laugh at myself, even while writing it. My basic desire is to try to be as Romantic a writer as possible, especially while travelling. The more pretension and polysyllabic words I can fit into a single well crafted sentence, the more it makes me giggle like a schoolgirl.]
I choose tea over coffee, as I'm not about to make the same mistake I made in Vienna of over-caffeinating myself into a near seizure.