Upon arriving at our accommodations in Berlin, like most kids walking into a hotel room for the first time, my daughter checked out the bathroom. When Natalie emerged, she said, “Daddy, come here.” 

“What’s up?” I said, following her into the bathroom. Pointing to a porcelain fixture next to the toilet which I knew her ten year old American eyes had never seen, she said, “What’s that? 

“That’s a bidet.” 

“What’s it for?” 

“It’s to wash your butt after you poop.” 

“But there’s toilet paper right over there.” 

“That’s for the in deep stuff,” I said. “You use the bidet afterwards. Then maybe pat yourself dry.”

“Weird.” 

“Just don’t mix them up.” 

Bidets are very civilized. After encountering them in Italy years ago, my wife and I idly thought about installing one in our house. The only trouble was our one bathroom is very small and we didn’t have room. We looked into getting one of those electric all in one Japanese jobs, but that would’ve necessitated hiring a guy to install a plug next to the toilet. Dreams of irrigated anuses fading, we resigned ourselves to living like barbarians. 

Since we’re on the subject of bathrooms, let’s talk about a common traveler’s complaint. When you factor in the stress of running to the airport, a transatlantic flight on a pressurized bus with their telephone booth sized commodes, jet lag, and richer food than you’re used to, that can do a number on your G.I. tract. That’s right folks, I’m talking about constipation. Luckily, I purged myself my second day in Berlin. Running does wonders for peristalsis. The others in my family, however, were not as lucky. I’ll spare you the details, but hotels really should offer free canisters of air-freshener along with those tiny soaps, shampoos, and shower caps. I mean, really. 

I also make it a point to do my business at home before I fly anywhere. This discipline developed later in my life as a result of my wife’s air travel OCD. A seasoned airline warrior, Annie becomes a different person the moment she steps into an airport. Unable to countenance anyone delaying her progress in any way, she also harbors a deep antipathy towards passengers who refuse to check their oversized carry ons and insist on hogging all the overhead bins. Sometimes she stews so hotly, I think she’s imagining those luggage fetishists getting sucked out of a port hole like Goldfinger at 30,000 feet. Messy. Early in our relationship, we were in an airport waiting to board our flight when I felt nature’s siren call. Seeing we had plenty of time, I excused myself and said, “I’ll be right back.” The bathroom was right by the gate and, as I sat down to get accomplish my mission, my phone announced an incoming text.  Good. Something to read. That helps sometimes you know. 

We’re boarding! Where are you?” 

I just sat down

Get out here now!

But I’m not finished. 

NOW! 

Had I misjudged the time? Was there some unspoken nuance of airline-fu that’d I’d failed to notice? One things for sure, Annie’s desperate digital entreaties put the kibosh on my toilet time. The turtle had indeed gone back into its shell. 

“What was the rush?” I said, uncomfortably buckling into my seat. “There was time.” 

“I wanted the overhead bin,” Annie said, triumphantly. By the time breakfast breached my defenses somewhere over Ohio, I made the Boeing’s tiny restroom olfactorily out of order for those seeking to join the Mile High Club. Talk about Snakes On a Plane.

Diet also plays a big part in a traveler’s digestive life. I’m sure they have vegetables in Germany but, other that sauerkraut, I despaired of seeing any. Then, when we were at a swanky buffet near the Black Forest, I finally found some, almost knocking the servers over to get to the tureen.  Honestly, I thought about taking the whole thing to my table and sticking my head in it. The body knows what it needs. But what really irked my ersatz brother-in-law about Germany was needing to pay money to use a public restroom. (They do take credit cards.) “How uncivilized,” he raged, but I shrugged it off since I’d seen that in Italy. I’ll never forget standing outside the Venice rail station restroom while waiting for my five month pregnant wife to complete her ablutions. Already October, but still very hot, I watched as an undeniably pregnant woman cried while begging people to give her a Euro. My interest piqued; I walked over to her.

“I need money to go to use the toilet,” she said in English before I opened my mouth. I guess I really do look like an American.

The poor woman was sweating like a pig and, having listened to my wife moan and groan about the how our incoming child was squashing her insides, helping this lady was a no brainer. “Here you go,” I said, fishing a Euro coin out of my pocket. Back then that was a buck thirty-three.  Another positive entry in St. Pete’s ledger. 

“Thank you!” the soon to be Madonna cried, “Thank you.” Despite being laden with child, she ran to that toilet faster than Usain Bolt. 

“Did you give that beggar money?” my wife asked, having seen the transaction and already weary from being accosted by gangs of youthful mendicants on the train ride over. 

“That was no beggar,” I said. Did I mention the woman was also ravishingly beautiful? My bad. 

Public toilets are a big deal – especially in Manhattan. In addition to their scarcity, I can’t tell you how many times I’ve pounded on a Starbucks’ restroom door because a junkie’s nodded off inside. When you gotta go you gotta go. Having practically lived in NYC for a time, however, I had assembled a list of free and very nice commodes for use by the general public – to the point of thinking about publishing a Michelin Guide for incontinent. tourists. The restrooms in the Time Warner Center get four stars. 

Paris, France, however, does shitting in public right. There’s almost never a fee and they even have automatic bathrooms in plain sight on the streets. You just wave your hand in front of the sensor; a door slides open and in you go. Then, when you’re done, the door closes and locks, the toilet retracts into its cubbyhole to be cleaned, and then it’s open again for business. The sign on the door tells patrons they have fifteen minutes to get their affairs in order before it opens and kicks you out. Enough time to drop a deuce or shoot up, but not enough time to take a three hour nap. Plus, if you’re a guy just looking to take a leak, you can use the attached urinoir to drain your main vein at no cost. Very civilized. The only problem was, when my wife needed to use one of these contraptions the door wouldn’t close – plus they freaked my daughter out. 

“It’s like R2-2 but a toilet,” I told her. Considering what they’re doing to the Star Wars franchise, I’m sure Disney will in installing something like that in all their parks. 

My daughter eventually used our bidet in Berlin and, as I heard her giggling inside the bathroom, I smiled. Travel does indeed broaden your horizons. Then, just before retiring for the night, my wife emerged from the bathroom screeching, “What is that in the bidet?” Getting up to investigate, I looked into the bowl and found an errant piece of Herr Hanky.

“Not mine,” I lied. “Must have been Natalie.” I know, how horrible am I? But I’m not above throwing my child under der Bus.