Travel Journal, 17

The three of us gazed into the plastic closet. Roughly four feet by three feet, this was to be our bathroom for the next three nights. If it’s just my wife and I, we can typically handle anything. But this trip was different. My mother-in-law was with us. Now, that’s not a bad thing. I have a wonderful relationship with my wife’s mom. I’m so blessed to have such a woman in my life. However, I am not used to staying in the same room as her, much less using the same tiny European bathroom. She was the extra variable.

Americans, like myself, are used to a certain comfort when it comes to size of bathroom and shower. Our hotel room in Paris boasted your standard fare European facilities. The Teacup Poodle of bathrooms. The shower, sink, toilet, door, and walls were all made of hard plastic. It looked like a prefabricated room that somebody had dropped into place. We looked around and discovered that there were only two towels. But I got a third towel from the desk.

After a long day of walking and seeing the sites, it’s nice to take a hot shower. But such a tiny plastic room never dries. It simply drips and steams until you finally leave, wondering how the next tenant will handle such a miniscule bathroom. I cleaned up, shaved, and changed. Opening the door, my wife poked her head in and asked, “where did you get that towel?”

“Which one?”

“The one you’re standing on,” she continued.

“Oh, that’s just the floor towel,” I said, confidently.

“Floor towel?”

“You know,” I condescended, “the bathmat.”

She looked at me, confused, “we only have the three towels. You had to get another one from the desk, remember?”

For three days, I had been using my sweet mother-in-law’s towel as a bathmat. But she never said anything. I doubt that she had a dry towel that entire trip.

Next time, I’ll ask for an extra floor towel.

anthony forrest