The Wheels on the Bus
I smell. I can't figure out what the smell is. It smells a bit like the women's bathroom. The kind with the porcelain trough that you plant your feet on either side of and squat. The kind that I lost my chapstick in. Watched it sink to the bottom of a half inch of water and pee and knew there was no way I was going in after it. Or maybe it was the smell of the silk worms being sauteed in big woks by the street vendors, their brown, ribbed shells greasy and shining with oil. I caught a whiff of myself on the bus home from Seoul as I watched the endless sticks of dead trees zoom past the window. I keep sniffing my sleeves, as if by some miracle, I've been mistaken and it's not me that smells at all, and rather it's just wafting off the bus seats. But the acidic smell is there every time. I finally braved the bus. Tired of tromping through the tunnels of Seoul without ever really seeing it. The funny thing is, I didn't miss much by staying underground. South Korea ...