Holy Crap!

The Bathroom.

Comfort Station.

The Ladies'.

Can.

Privy.

Latrine.

Head.

John.

Lavatory.

Powder Room.

Restroom.

Toilet.

Washroom.

The W.C.

Water Closet.

Port-a-John.

Port-o-San.

Public Convenience.

It's the last moniker, public convenience, that prompted me to write this blog post. Some bathrooms I've visited have not given me that sense of privacy, comfort and convenience that ya just oughta have for life's necessary, indelicate, and sometimes most urgent moments. And cleaning public loo's has got to top the list of the world's worst jobs. I mean, really.

I bet there are a million stories I could collect on the topic, but frankly I don't want to plumb those depths.

In Mexico, where urgency is elevated to new levels, there will be no time to think, much less to fumble for coins. You need to know ahead of time that you h-a-v-e to have pesos at the ready. Pesos will get you thru a turnstile or will buy you a length of toilet paper from an attendant. Your anguished expression? They've seen it thousands of times. "Tres pesos, por favor."  "Do you have change for a five?" is not a question worth asking. BYO baby wipes. 'Nuf said.

In Scotland, the toilet paper was very waxy. 'Nuf said.

In Italy, not only have I seen half a phone book hanging by a rope where the toilet paper should go (hello, black ink!)...but there's often a hole in the ground where the toilet ought to be.

Logistical issues abound. Where to hang your purse or daypack? Challenges arise when wearing pants rather than a skirt, p-hose or tights, and balancing while securing/using the toilet tissue. Sheesh. Knee problems, or being handicapped? I think you're sh*t outta luck.

Last weekend I was out to lunch in the very civilized city of Charlotte, NC and my friend came back to the table and said, "You're not gonna believe the bathroom."

Huh?

Sure, it was clean and well appointed. I'm pretty open, but not in the Ladies' Room. I locked the door and swore to myself that I'll never end up in prison.