The stench has been the most memorable part of the last month.

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Piles and piles of rotting garbage, baking in the late July sun. Rotten fruit, ancient piles of musty wood, and an ever-present layer of slowly broiling seagull shit.

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You drag your torn shoes over the patchy, uneven ground until one of them catches on a discarded "YIELD" sign. Your shoe tears in two pieces, leaving your foot unguarded from the filthy ground. You sigh and keep moving forward, your naked foot pressing against rusted metal and scattered bits of dirt.

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Your stomach rumbles.