I don't understand why the bathroom at my work smells like a rest stop on the New Jersey Turnpike.
I would think that people would treat the bathroom that they have to visit several times a day with a little more care. I'm confident the thing is cleaned every day, so that tells me that every day, people must make a conscious effort to piss all over the seat, leave toilet paper on the floor and otherwise befowl the place.
It was an interesting ride home tonight. I got onto the train, which happened to arrive just as I got to the terminal, and took one of the last open seats next to a man with an elven face attached to a roleplayer's body: small, pointed, slightly upturned nose, bright green eyes, too long beard, beige three piece suit filled with girth. At the next stop, the train jammed full, people holding the door open long after it was supposed to close allowing those last 10 or so people to cram in. He leaned towards me and said "it looks like you got on just in time." I smiled and agreed, and he then asked me, "I just don't understand how you can get used to all of these people around. I'm not from around here usually. I live in a small town in the middle of Ohio, but I have been stationed here for a few months with my job."
A conversation began about how people find privacy in city life, and how startling yet exciting it is to be here versus in the country. "I do love going home, though," he added, "Last time I went back, someone had put a commode on my front lawn and planted flowers in it."