Shifting my eyes longingly toward the Arial-typefaced "Restroom" sign, I stepped up my pace and opened the partially-rusted lock from which I’d hoped Heaven would await on the other side. Rather, I received quite a stench from the porcelain and urine-encrusted toilet, sitting about five not-so-invitingly feet before me. Sensing this was no time to question the facilities — this would be done at a later date, like perhaps now — I unleashed the fury and prepared to wash my hands.

My heart genuinely sank as I realized the lack of foamy soap products or paper towels (fit for a king!). Contemplating the circus of microbial action on my fingertips, I turned the long-unwashed handle of the sink — cold, as hot did not work — and gasped inaudibly beneath my breath as the fresh water ran over my skin.

Oh, sweet Jesus, this was heaven.

I could practically feel my sins of the day washing free of my mortal soul. "Beauty," I thought as I hastily wiped my hands across my pant legs and turned to exit. Looking back, it probably wasn’t quite so eventful or thought-out, but in retrospect it takes on its own life.

I give this restroom a 6 out of 10. I do enjoy washing my hands.