Sometimes a foreign hotel room's eerie silence makes me rummage through the bathroom drawers for some semblance of comfort. My fingers dance over the cheap hotel toiletries, the ones with garish labels and dubious fragrances, as I attempt to create a mini- routine. This usually involves an overly elaborate hair-tossing incident, an inexplicable fidget with the bathroom towel's thread count, and a hasty inspection of any provided snacks for something – anything – palatable. Last night's offering was an ungodly concoction labeled "Exotic Fruit Delight".
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