There's nothing more disgusting, in my estimation, than a Porta-John. I exited the dark blue box with a sense of general uncleanliness and the need to scrub from head to toe, shuddering as I stepped aside to allow the next person in line to have their go inside the humid, dank space that really was likely the first level of a new hell we'd created for ourselves.

As I made my way back to the table and Mom, I paused to give my hands a solid three-fold wash in the portable ...