Bath Shower Home Design

Marzipan Memories March 2, 2007 It’s amazing how intertwined scent and memory are. Certain smells can take you back to another place and time. The sharp scent of gas reminds me of NP stations in Trinidad, where men in red and black shirts pump your gas for you. The gas in my memory somehow has a sweeter and sharper smell than American gas does. The scent of freshly-struck matches and vanilla candles takes me back to blackouts and hurricanes, the week we spent without power after Hurricane Wilma. And the smell of almond soap takes me back to a horrendous job I had after I graduated from high school. The one good memory I have about that job was the delicious bathroom soap , how the scent would linger on my hands. I always wanted to find a similarly scented soap for myself, but this was the pink kind that’s installed in public restroom dispensers . Despite my love for that bargain basement soap , I’m a bit of a soap snob. I have yet to find a scent of Softsoap that I enjoy, and don...

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I am an old man in his sixtieth year. I have entered that decade of life which destroys the last illusion and beyond which lies death, swift or lingering, actuarial or real. I am also poor, incontrovertibly, humiliatingly poor, for the first time in my life. My total annual income , from a modest pension ($1980) and the interest ($168.75) from an equally modest savings account , is 6 percent of what I earned in my prime-and less than two thirds of the property tax I once paid on a five-bedroom home with swimming pool in Westchester County, New York. I am divorced and living alone in an alien city of 800,000 strangers. My aging body betrays me day by day; the ground I am losing now I lose forever. So I perceived myself, at any rate, when the plane from a foreign country dropped me in San Diego one night seven months ago. Behind me stretched an aimless, six-year, expatriate trail through the South Seas, Asia, and Latin America that began when divorce and its inevitable byproducts-seco...