And the Titanic Award goes to... (assignment 5)

I can feel myself getting nauseous as the stench of a dirty diaper hangs closely in the air. Using my hands as an impromptu gas mask, I try to breath slowly and calmly, hoping that the smell will soon fade. It doesn’t. I try for the window, but after tugging relentlessly for a few moments, I come to the conclusion that they are sealed shut. What kind of bus has windows that won’t open? This is not what I signed on for when I made reservations for a bus to take a friend and me from Florence to Pisa, a 70-minute drive. In fact, I was expecting an entirely different experience.

I thought that maybe I could relax, catch up on some sleep, maybe do a little reading, and all in the comfort of some nice air-conditioning (a luxury I had not been able to enjoy very often since arriving in Florence a few weeks before). Standing in the hot sun, waiting for the bus to arrive at the Florence train station, my friend and I both agreed the thought of a nice, cold bus sounded more than agreeable. As soon as we took the first few steps into the interior, however, we both knew we wouldn’t be getting our luxury ride after all. Without air-conditioning, and no open windows, the hot air sat on us like a heavy wool blanket in the middle of July.

And then came the dirty diaper stench. It crept upon us like a stealth invader: slowly and with growing pungency.

I am reminded of when I was in High School. For some reason, the Board of Education decided the school was better off with windows that wouldn’t open. So during the day, we always knew when a science class was dissecting some dead animal because the smell of ammonia (and the other chemicals they used to preserve the specimens) would fill the entire top floor of the school. And there was nothing we could do about it. We would get an ammonia-induced headache at least once a day; the kind that fills your entire head with pounding and throbbing aches that won’t go away for a few hours.

So here I am, stuck on a hot and humid bus for at least another half hour, with no fresh air, and odors so foul that I’m beginning to get dizzy. With hands clenched tightly over my nose and mouth, all I can think is, “I’m going to die.” While I understand that it is no more the parent’s fault than it is the poor baby’s, I can’t help but feel slightly resentful towards both. Lesson learned: call ahead to make sure the bus has windows that actually work (because apparently that’s not a certainty), and maybe bring a scented handkerchief (just in case).