Love at the Edge
Every country has a scent. In countries where bodies smell like bodies, you catch it in the airport: some musk of water and mold and mud, livening the pocked fluorescent halls. In countries where bodies are purged of their scent, the water still holds it. Wait until you get to the hotel, run a hot shower, and stand in the little tiled room to soak in the smell of that place: jackfruit, sumac, sewage, beef. And under these strong notes of food and refuse, some human fragrance, not quite sweat and not quite sex, crushed from no single body.