Czech Burritos and Tiny Airplane Bathrooms
I DON’T HAVE SHY BOWEL ANXIETY
or whatever the term for that is, I just prefer to take care of business in the comfort of my own home. A steady vegan/vegetarian diet over the past seven years has made me reliable as Old Faithful, so usually I can accommodate myself without fear of being out in public having to rush to the nearest facilities, which, now that I’ve been living in Prague, is most likely a public, paid toilet that costs between 20 and 50 Czech crowns, never having the right amount of change because I’m an American who doesn’t value coins and still hasn’t become accustomed to how carrying coins in Prague is actually useful. That, or dashing into a coffee shop or pub, and quickly ordering a drink because no business operating in Prague will let you blithely saunter in and avail yourself freely of their commode. There is no compromising, they’re all steadfast in their rigidness on the “no public water closet” policy, so best just to take care of that at home.
The last place I want to have a bowel movement is aboard an airplane. My travel plans involve getting to my seat, situating myself, and not leaving it for the duration of the flight, if at all possible, so I plan ahead and take care of business accordingly, but sometimes nature has it’s own plans and you’re helpless against it’s whims. Which is exactly where I found myself on a recent three hour flight to Cyprus.
I’d successfully boarded the Austrian Airline plane, safely stowed my luggage in the overhead compartment and below the seat in front of me, buckled myself in, put on my noise cancelling, floating conversation blocking headphones, and got out the book I recently purchased just for this trip. I was all set to ride out this flight when we began to taxi for take off and I was suddenly met with the familiar yearning of my bowels. Though this wasn’t a gentle notification. This was a full shot across the bow. Things were going to happen, and quickly. This required my immediate attention, but the seatbelt light was on. The flight attendants were preparing to strap in for lift off. I was stuck.
While doing my best to fight back the upcoming evacuation I made a look around to see where my closest option was. As soon as that seatbelt light retired its oppressive glow I was making a break for it. The nearest option would be the business class bathroom, which I wasn’t sure I was even allowed to use, me being a lowly economy class passenger. I thought about going for it anyway, and if the attendants got in my way, making a large, American sized, loud objection about the subjugation of the classes and how I was being oppressed, but reconsidered as I was not sure my bowels, or the Austrian Airline flight attendant would have the patience for my political diatribe. The lavatories in the back were my only choice.
As the plane taxied further, I jostled my leg up and down, gripping the seat in front me, trying not to answer nature’s emergency call, my foot tapping fast enough to put the best blast beat, heavy metal drummers to shame. I knew I shouldn’t have had that burrito the previous night.
My yearning for American styled “Tex Mex” leaves me at the mercy of what passes here in Prague for that delightful culinary cuisine, which is Mexican-ish. Sure, it looks like a burrito, might even fool these non Mexico-touching Europeans, but it’s not the same. As if somebody explained Mexican food to Czech chefs and they did their best to recreate it. A burrito phantom, typically consisting of various vegetables, sometimes rice, beans, but not pinto or black, various meats, but most quizzically of all, Gouda cheese. Waffling between vegan and vegetarian, I always skip the meat, which leaves me with the veggie, bean, sometimes Gouda cheese concoction, with a side of “salsa” which is usually a chunky paste, varying wildly in heat intensity. The previous night’s was on the spicier side, perhaps even fire, I lamented as I quivered in my tiny economy seat.
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After a million hours we reach cruising altitude and the seatbelt light’s cruel mockery was extinguished, giving me permission to fling it off and hustle down the aisle, hoping in vain nobody gets up in front of me. Unimpeded, I opened the folding door to the lavatory, slid it back in place, locked it, and frantically dropped my pants and drawers, collapsing on the toilet, where I encountered my first setback: I didn’t fit. Not only does my American sized, made by processed and fatty foods physique not fit entirely on the comically small toilet seat, but I cannot spread my legs even an inch, held together by the bathroom sink and the restrictive Austrian Airline’s bathroom confinements, which leaves my junk sandwiched firmly between my thighs, and not able to be directed downward at it’s intended target. I’m going to piss myself if this isn’t resolved.
With all my strength I clench my bowels, begging them to hold, while I pull my pants and boxer briefs all the way down to my ankles hoping that would give me just enough wiggle room to open my legs an inch and get myself free to start this party. It does not. “Damn Europeans,” I curse, “with their inhuman predilection for smaller sized… everything.”
A new plan is needed, and quickly. I decide a hovering technique may work. I stand, lifting up the toilet seat, and squat just above, but cannot find a good angle, nor release my junk from my thigh’s vice-like grip. Things are going to happen any second. I can no longer hold my bowels at bay. In a moment of panic caused by not wanting to shit all over this bathroom, I fall on the now seatless bowl, thrusting my hands between my legs, to push my main member down towards the toilet, leaving it firmly wedged there. Everything in the proper place, nature takes hold and the process begins at long last.
Leaving my entire internal contents below me, I grab some toilet paper to finish this whole ridiculous debacle off and run face first into my next problem: there’s not enough room to reach behind me. Through the front and in between my legs was already a no go. I revisit my earlier hovering plan, but still, not clearance enough for the maneuver. I sit back down to formulate a new plan, now questioning why I ever decided to move to Europe, forsaking the spacious American bathrooms for these claustrophobic nightmares.
Taking in my surroundings I concoct a less than graceful solution (we’re way beyond grace at this point) to stand up, turn my body sideways so I’m facing the sink and mirror, put my left foot on the toilet to raise my leg, and stretch out my right leg, then reach under for the wiping. This has to work or I’m out of ideas and will have to spend the three hour flight to Cyprus pretending I didn’t crap my pants.
I begin to bring my plan in to action, but my feet are restricted by my pants, keeping me from lifting, and spreading, I know, in my heart of hearts, if I pull my pants off trying to do this, I’ll never get them back on, so I pull my pants up to right below my knees, and huzzah, it works! Now i have my legs spread, left raised on the toilet bowel, my boys now resting on the sink ledge. It’s at this moment I get a glimpse of myself in the dimly lit airplane’s bathroom mirror. This is all my fault. If only I started taking those walks like I said I would. If only I stopped eating mostly junk, pizza, and Czech burritos. How many of those Czech pilsners have I drank since moving to Prague? Why don’t I take my health seriously? I could actually go on those walks. Hell, I live in the most beautiful city in the world. Why not see more of it? I have two little weirdo dogs that might like to see more than just the backyard. I could take them with me. I could justify all those tasty Pilsner Urquells if I walked my fat ass to the pub. I could do this. I can embrace a healthy lifestyle, lose weight, and make it possible for me to fit in a European bathroom without having to straddle the sink, balls dangling on the cold airline plastic, while I wipe my ass fifty thousand feet in the air. I vow to make these changes if only this fucking works.
And, it does, mercifully. Perhaps not entirely, but enough to not worry about it until we land and I can get to a more spacious bathroom. I finish up, get myself in order, wash my hands, clean off the sink the best I can, and exit the restroom, where wouldn’t you fucking know it, they’ve started the drink service, having already passed my row, leaving me to stand in the back of the plane like I’m in some “Seinfeld” bit, and wait while all the passengers take their sweet time ordering European beers, wine, and coffee, all while the flight attendants stare me down with accusatory looks like I should have known better, their smug European-ness a billboard of judgement.
At long last the service is over and I’m permitted free return to my seat. I buckle in, put back on my noise cancelling headphones, and begin to try and forget this whole experience as I open my new book of short horror stories, the very first of which is about a women, who after going to the bathroom, has a figure emerge from her leavings in the toilet, and proceeds to torment her for years after each time she has a bowel movement. “Huh,” I think. “Lucky her, I could have used the extra fucking hand.”
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