Hey—It’s Toffer.
And I have made a huge mistake.
See, I thought it would be fun to travel back in time, soak in the grandeur of Versailles, and maybe have a little merienda with French royalty. You know, sip some fine wine, eat pastries, talk about la vie en rose. But the moment I stepped through the time portal, I knew I was in trouble.
Estimated read time: 5 minutes
First of all, the smell.
I gagged. Hard.
Imagine riding the MRT at rush hour, on a hot day, next to someone who believes deodorant is a government conspiracy. Now multiply that by a thousand. That was Versailles in the 1600s. The entire palace—this glorious, gold-adorned masterpiece—reeked of body odor, spoiled food, and something I really didn’t want to identify.
I tried to stay positive. “Okay, Toffer,” I told myself. “You’re in the time of kings and queens! Just look at these gorgeous chandeliers and—”
Someone threw poop out the window.
Let me say that again.
Someone. Threw. Poop. Out. The. Window.
I dodged just in time. Apparently, Versailles doesn’t have bathrooms. No toilets. No bidets. Just the open air and the raw confidence of the French aristocracy. I had heard of lavish lifestyles, but I didn’t think that meant lavish nang baho.
I needed to breathe. I ran to the gardens, hoping for fresh air. Bad idea.
The moment I stepped onto the grass, I realized that these so-called gardens were actually the restroom during court parties. It was like stepping onto a minefield, except instead of bombs, it was—well, you get the picture.
So I did what any self-respecting human would do: I held my breath and went looking for food.
Surely, the palace’s grand kitchen would make up for the horrors outside. I imagined a feast worthy of royalty—freshly baked bread, rich stews, maybe even a nice cup of hot chocolate. Instead, I found a bunch of sweaty chefs, chopping meat with unwashed hands, tossing food into boiling pots, and taste-testing with fingers that I’m pretty sure had just scratched their armpits.
“Ah, so this is how I die,” I whispered to myself.
A noblewoman walked by, fanning herself aggressively. At first, I thought, Wow, sosyal! Then I realized she wasn’t cooling herself off—she was trying to survive her own body odor.
See, they didn’t bathe often. Showers were rare, and in winter? Forget it. The closest thing to hygiene was covering yourself in perfume, fanning away your own stench, and pretending nobody could smell you.
But nothing prepared me for the wedding customs.
A group of ladies giggled as they arranged a bride’s bouquet.
“Awww,” I thought. How romantic.
Then someone explained:
“Ah yes, she carries flowers to hide her body odor. The wedding is in June, you see. They had their annual bath in May.”
ANNUAL. BATH.
At that point, I blacked out for a second. When I came to, I was inside a medieval house. The ceiling beams were alive—dogs, cats, rats, cockroaches… it was like Noah’s Ark but with a pest problem. Suddenly, it rained, and the animals started jumping down.
A rat landed on my shoulder. I screamed in Tagalog. The French people screamed back in French. We were united in fear.
Desperate to escape, I ran into a tavern and grabbed the nearest drink—some medieval beer, served in a tin cup. I gulped it down, hoping to calm my nerves. Moments later, my vision blurred. My body went limp. The bartender checked my pulse.
“Merde! He’s dead!”
I WASN’T DEAD.
But apparently, drinking from tin cups mixed with alcohol sometimes caused people to pass out so hard that everyone just assumed they were gone. It happened so often that they came up with a solution: hold a wake. Literally. They’d set the “dead” body on the table, let friends and family drink around it, and wait to see if the person would randomly wake up.
I wanted to protest, but I couldn’t move. I just sat there, paralyzed, as strangers debated whether to bury me.
Then I heard the worst part.
In England, they were so used to burying people alive that they started tying a rope to the corpse’s wrist, leading to a bell above ground. If the “dead” woke up, they could ring it and be saved by the bell.
That was it. I was done.
I managed to regain control of my body, jumped up, and screamed, “HINDI PA AKO PATAY!” before sprinting back to the time portal.
When I finally made it home, I collapsed onto my modern, well-sanitized floor and took a deep breath of clean, fresh air.
We may complain about Manila traffic, inflation, and slow internet… but at least we have toilets, showers, and deodorant.
Let’s all take a moment to appreciate the time we live in today. Because trust me—we have never smelled better.
From Versailles with B.O.,
Toffer