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Dear (Foreign) John

The Source

By Ken Bradbury

I don't usually spend much time thinking about toilets. Like celery on your salad, the john is just there and if you spend undue time pondering on it, you’ll…well…it’s just not the way to spend your day. That is unless something is strange...out of place. My brother and his wife traveled with me to Great Britain last summer. While the other intrepid members of our group were out taking pictures of the Blarney Stone and Big Ben, Keith was busy compiling a photo montage of “The Men’s Restrooms of the British Isles.” Personally, I think he’s spent too much time in bank board rooms. World travel opens you up in many ways and none are more eye-opening than dealing with foreign potties. Oh, the places you will sit, Dr. Seuss! On a visit to Moscow our group was housed on the Moscow River in an old boat brought in and left behind by the East Germans. I thought I had been in tiny hotel bedrooms, but nothing had prepared me for the cramped quarters left behind by what must have been very small Slavic gymnasts. Literally…I’m not kidding…you had a choice of standing up in the room or lying down. That was it. Once you released the retractable beds from the wall all available standing room completely disappeared. The entire room became your bed. And then the toilets… Is it legal to separate adjoining shower stalls with opaque plastic? That’s o-p-a-q-u-e. If your light was on while the your neighbor’s was off, they were treated to the sight of your naked silhouette .. like the old shadow-strip shows in Vaudeville. When I entered my bathroom to see what looked very much like the form of one of my students I quickly called a meeting of our group and proclaimed rule. All lights on or all lights off! It’s not like you could hide in the Russian john since the shower spigot was located in the center of the room. When you turned the knob the entire restroom became your shower, ergo: you take no clothing into the restroom with you unless you want your fresh shirt laundered. As for the French…God love ‘em. They’ve been tinkling indoors long before Americans designated the first Pilgrim bushes as “His” and “Hers.” A young man who grew up to be a prominent Jacksonville attorney (Aren’t they all prominent? Have you heard anyone described as “an obscure attorney?” I won’t mention his name or Rick Crews might become upset…) once shared Parisian lodgings with me and being a country boy had never been treated to the delights of the French bidet. “Bidet” is the French word which roughly translated means “That thing which surprises the heck out of Americans if they don't know it’s coming.” Rick came down to breakfast the next morning and proudly announced to the group that our room had a “foot washer!” Actually, I’ve done my laundry in bidets. A little soup, pull the handle and whoosh-whoosh… Maytag de jour. And although toilet paper isn’t the stuff of polite conversation, it’s worth noting that despite the decline of America’s influence around the world, there’s still not a nation who’s toidy tissue can stand up to ours. I’ve experienced toilet paper in the Swiss Alps that resembled number three sandpaper, little whispers of tissue in New Zealand that you could easily read a newspaper through, and for the all-time dumbest toilet wipes I again defer to the Soviets. Think wax paper. Wax paper! I won’t go into the problems posed by non-porous paper. Your own imagination has already waxed to the logical conclusion. It’s been years since I’ve encountered a uni-sex toilet in Europe but they still abound in the hinterlands. Ladies have little problem, simply going into the stall and shutting the door. Men, faced with the tall, white porcelain fixture are faced with a dilemma not so much of technique but concentration. You may have your back to the line of ladies, but dog-gone it there are times when…Oh, nevermind. And sorry to again pick on our Soviet brethren, but our Leningrad hotel had restroom attendants on every floor. Women in attendants in men’s restrooms… matronly little old gals who’d hand you a towel, smile, then look longingly at their tip jar. I wear a cross necklace and when I entered the restroom dear old Anya saw it and began to point at my adornment adoringly. I was under pressure so I had time for nothing but a smile and headed for the urinal. It was less than a minute when the chatter began behind me. Mother Anya had gone out into the hall, called in several of her friends, and while I was trying to bring a bit of private détente to my international crisis, a withered old hand reached around my neck, grabbed the cross, and slung it around to the back of my neck so the ladies could admire it. While doing my business I was being strangled by five elderly Soviet restroom attendants. With my one free hand I slipped the necklace off and let them have it. Christ said to go into all the world and preach the gospel. I left a piece of it in Leningrad. The list of restroom revelations endless..the roadside unisex toilet in Italy which were merely holes cut into the concrete floor, a set of footprints carved facing the hole for men and away from the pit for women… the Australian john with very large, ravenous-looking flowers growing beside the commode….The New Zealand toitty where you did you business staring a huge scowling mask of a Maori tribesman…. But the all-time winner is London’s famous Super-Loo! The Super-Loos are street-side restrooms found scattered about the British Capital, resemble very large phone booths (sans windows), and cost about 60 cents to use. Once you’ve done your touristy business the door shuts, the entire room is blasted with scalding water, and a new, fresh potty rotates to await the next customer while your previous stall is drying out. One catch: to prevent anyone from getting trapped in the booth and thus scalded to death, each loo has a timer. If you aren’t out in a specified amount of time the door flies open. I skipped the Super-Loo since the tricky Brits gave no indication of the time allotted. Visions of sitting there on a Piccadilly Avenue sidewalk with thousands of pedestrians coming at me.. well….I was reminded of what my dad told me as we left California driving to Illinois, “You can hold it ‘til you get home.”