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It was a small dive hotel in Singapore but it was only one night and my funds were limited.  I had a private room with a TV on the blink.  The buzz of blurred pixels was both soothing and aggravating.  The shared bathroom didn’t have an actual toilet.  The stalls had holes on the floor and there was a hose with a spicket.  I meant I was going to need to squat.  I was learning the true meaning of the term “shithole”.  Surely, new perspective was to be gained when encountering dive bars and fleabag motels in the future.  3 weeks of eating nothing but Southeast Asian cuisine disrupted my system.  This final evening would test my patience.  Sluicing just isn’t my cup of tea.  My thigh muscles were going to be tested—although I was grateful for my habit of keeping a roll of toilet paper in my backpack when I travel.

Southeast Asian chow

Traveler’s diarrhea 

And now a shithole