Rest station culture

Hello again. I may be entering middle age, because I'm about to tell you about a highway rest station.

But not just any rest station. This was a palace. If 99% of humans throughout history woke up, after death, in this rest station, they would assume that they had been sacrificing lizard testicles to the correct globular shape.

How clean was this rest station? A man was cleaning the fountain. The water jets were off, and there he was, on his knees, scrubbing. I should stress that this was already a fountain, and so already spotless. You could have built microprocessors on the bathroom surfaces. (And, as an added bonus, the bathroom was playing early 90s dance music--I believe I heard Technotronic. This is in no way a criticism.) One of the paper dispensers ran out of paper--and someone replaced it. 

How commodious was this rest station? There was a Burger King, of which I did not partake, but which I appreciated. There was a Simit Sarai, the wonderful national chain that translates as "Simit Palace." For three lire, I bought two bags: one of delicious corn, one of nuts coated in sesame seeds with a honey glaze. Then back on the eerily spotless bus. As I write this, the drinks man is coming around with drinks again.