A carving on the wall in the courtyard of our very modest hotel, which we were modestly placed in after the reservation at the Auberge d'Azel fell through. I suppose this must be Heinrich Barth; everything else is. The room was on the roof with a ceiling so thin we could get GPS through it. It didn't smell like a sewer exactly. It smelled like a paper mill, or rotten cabbage, a mercaptan. Distinctive.