Foreign Bathroom Series

Chapter Two: The Lav

A dull hum roars in the back of my skull. Has it always been there? It must have a beginning. I can no longer remember what it is like in the outside world. But the passing of time is very apparent. Ah, I remember now. The droning began when our flight lifted off in Atlanta.

I’m on a plane.

Slowly I peel my eye mask away from my travel worn face. It feels like I’m removing a rejected skin graft. As my eyes come into focus, I look around. This must be what 14th century England looked like. What disease has taken hold of these flying peasants? Twelve hours ago, we all boarded with such high hopes. Smiling faces anticipated adventure. Small families settled and tucked into in-flight entertainment. The meal service stoked the fires of happiness and several opportunities for drinks and snacks have since come and gone. But now the romance has worn off.

As I look around this refugee camp, it hits me: I have to pee.

Holding it is not an option on a 17-hour flight. So, I untangle myself from the tissue-thin plane-blanket, replace my tray table, and begin the journey up the aisle.

When I fly, one of the first things I do is take off my shoes. My feet swell while flying and I hate to wear my shoes for so long. I opened the door to the bathroom (lavatory or lav). The garbage overflowed. Toilet paper lay strewn everywhere. And the little sink was filled with a residue of some scummy liquid. An airplane lav is disgusting at the beginning of a flight. But 12 hours in? You’d better be on a prophylactic antibiotic.

I stepped in to get to business and quickly realized that I was not wearing my shoes. Immediately my feet were soaked.

Water? I will never know. But deep down, I know the truth.

And I’ve learned my lesson:

Going to the airplane bathroom in solely one’s stocking feet is fraught with consequences.

anthony forrest