As I washed my hands in tepid water in the once white, cracked sink, I thought “Why would the restroom give choice A and B, when clearly A was the only sanitary one in the room?”
After nearly three hours driving, my daughter and I stopped just outside Galena, IL, taking a pit stop at the local gas station/liquor store/sandwich shop/corner store decorated with metallic fringe over the booze and virtually nothing on the other side but barely-dressed beer “models” on posters. I took my turn in the single bathroom and looked for somewhere to dry my hands.
I made the obvious choice A , the paper towel dispenser with a recycled brown paper roll to unwind and rip off a piece, the tail end sticking out for the next person to grab. Choice B was the cloth roll I haven’t seen since I was a child, and always on a road trip in a bathroom. That white, rough cloth that spins on a roller when you jerk it, and you can hear the wheels grind as the next section of stained, graying cloth comes out, the wet pieces disappearing into the back of the chipped metal dispenser, so you think they have gone to be cleaned and pressed before they swing back out front. But that cloth really just sits and molts in the back, with the germs mulitiplying and waiting for the next unsuspecting victim to sully their recently washed hands.
How often do you think they change those cloth rolls? Annually? Ever? And once they are washed and cleaned, how are they rolled and put back into the machines? Tired of hanging in that depressing room, I chose the paper. If I wanted cloth, I would simply use the front of my jeans. They must be cleaner than the cloth in the machine. C