I arrived there still smelling the smell of sweat and stale urine, of unruly growth and open decay. I was used to faces that showed the imprint of emotion, the stamp of excess. I was accustomed to things being old, worn down, chipped, scratched, scuffed and patched, but real. Where I had been, people and things were forced to show the real stuff they were made of, because the superficial could not survive the battering it got. I was used to the sound of life, roars of laughter, shouts of anger, whistles, catcalls, bargaining, argument and domestic squabble; to the sight and smell of animals;
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