I round the corner from the doorway of my bedroom and am instantly hit with the sweet, syrupy smell of vanilla. The room is illuminated by the soft, flickering lights coming from the dozens of candles lining the bathroom counter and the sides of the tub that's nestled into the back corner of the room. Water is pouring out of the spout into a sea of bubbles that's nearly full, and a glass of white wine is perched on the ledge. And sitting right beside it is another perfectly ripened fig. I have no idea what to make of this. Stepping into the bathroom, I reach down to turn off the spout, and
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