Bathrooms

So now it’s time to address something rather, well, private. The bathrooms.

When I imagined myself on this trip, I saw myself marveling at all the different architecture, the different people, the different language, the different art, etc. I never even gave a thought to how different the bathrooms would be.

I should have.

Okay, first of all, plane bathrooms. They are ALWAYS smaller than you remember. I mean, I understand you have to be compact, you’re relieving yourself on an airplane, but COME ON. Really? There’s not enough standing room for my knees, let alone my entire body to fit in that teeny two-by-two space. And that’s coming from a 5-foot-three, 115 pound girl. I felt bad for the 6-foot-3, 250 pound giant of a man sitting two rows down from me. HE could barely fit in the airplane itself! How on earth was he supposed to fit in the bathroom? Don’t even get me started in connection planes.

Question of the day: Are first-class bathrooms bigger than coach?

English bathrooms. Otherwise known as “the loo.” Most of the time, they are actually nicer. A stall, unlike economical American ones, has walls that reach from the ceiling to the floor and the door is full-sized so you have more privacy. It resembles a closet, which makes sense that it was once called the “water closet.” And the flusher is never actually attached to the toilet. You should’ve seen me frantically searching for the flusher the first time I used the bathroom. It was pitiful. To save you time and the horror of thinking one will not be able to flush, I’ll go ahead and tell you, IT’S ON THE WALL. And sometimes, it remarkably resembles a magical door handle into Narnia. Or just a silver panel above the toilet that you push in.

And when you wash your hands, don’t ignore the “WARNING: HOT WATER” signs, because the water is actually SCALDING. Even the cold water is hot!

French bathrooms. Are unisex.

I think I almost died the first time I used one. I innocently walked in and saw a man washing his hands at the sink. Embarrassed, I darted out, thinking I had unintentionally waltzed into the men’s room. Nope. I found no sign clarifying gender outside the bathroom. It just said “Toilet.” I wasn’t really sure if I should use this newfangled European restroom. But a full day of walking and French coffe had its effect on this poor little American tourist and I REALLY had to go. So, I braved the wild unknown and marched back into the bathroom. And to the right were the ladies’ stalls, to the left, the gentlemen. So I continued to march past the men washing their hands and right into that stall. It was a liberating experience. Not really. Just weird. What’s worse are bathrooms in restaurants. Because the urinals are not protected by doors. Need I say more? It’s just plain gross and washing my hands was not a cleansing experience. I learned to avoid eye contact, well, any contact, really quickly.

And last, but not least, you have to pay to use 80% of the bathrooms. the ones on the street are scary. they have this mechanic door that opens when you insert 50 pence or cents and you walk in, and it closes behind you and locks. and you feel like you have walked into a high-security prison rather than a bathroom. and you have twenty full minutes in a stall on the side of the road to yourself. It's...interesting, to say the least.

 

 

I’m sorry if this entry was really gross or too much for you to handle. I just wanted to give you fair warning. You know, prepare you for your exotic European excursion. I suggest taking hand sanitizer.