Dead rat. Yes, really. Can you say "de-comp-o-sition" boys and girls? I knew you could -- if you're not too busy wretching from the smell, that is. (They actively encourage the maggots to crawl around in there and no, it's not sealed.)




After finally leaving the Exploratorium, I went to find the bus stop for the ride back into downtown (at least I knew how to get there). Their idea of marking a bus stop is a little minimalist if you ask me.




When I got back to my hotel later that night, I noticed a sign off the lobby that I hadn't seen before. Somehow I find it truly bizarre that there would be a Machiavelli Room in a hotel. I'm not sure I want to know what's going on in there.




Before leaving the next morning I wanted to go out and get a surreptitious photo of my tuneless tormentor. You can almost make out the steel drums.




The next morning it was time to head back to Toronto. Needless to say, there was no one else at the BART station at a quarter to 6 in the morning. Because no one picks such dumb flights as me? Perhaps. Because I was boarding at a downtown station and the commuters hadn't arrived from the burbs yet? More likely.

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