POOCH SAYS

       My husband once returned from a last-minute trip to the men's room at a tour bus depot with a strange look on his face. "You won't believe this, but there are no urinals in there! Only a trench cut in the cement floor." (Must have been an ancient building built on a slant!) Ah, travel is so educational.

       My first sojourn into English public restrooms was at Kensington Palace and I could just as well have been in an American public restroom, except that the toilet paper was the thickness and finish of wax paper! I'll admit that I felt guilty about using something that had "Government Property" printed on each sheet! I felt I was being disrespectful to the Queen. On the other hand, would anyone want to steal this stuff? (I obviously did because here's the proof!)

       The ferry from Ireland to England lands at a small town. The driver told us we had fifteen minutes to use the public restroom while the bus got a thorough washing (I suppose so no Irish bugs got imported accidentally.) Only one person had an English coin to open the door so the departing ladies kindly held the door for the next person. (That's American/Irish compassion.) However, I never got to the head of the line before "All Aboard" was sounded! Always carry a tuppence in your pocket, ladies and gentlemen.

       My apologies to those of German descent, but I have never witnessed such rudeness as those exhibited by hefty frauleins in Munich. They pushed women out of line while giving us dirty looks and no doubt talking about us. Talk about aggression!

       After watching child labor at knitting looms in Egypt, we were given polite directions to the restrooms on the second floor. Surprise! There was nothing to dry wet hands with. Upon exiting, a young man SOLD us paper towels. Then we knew why the directions were so kindly given!

       I'm not sure that I like French guides. There are outdoor public cubicles at curbside that are coin operated. Music plays to hide tinkling sounds, but the guide told us that when the music ends, the door opens. Needless to say, everyone elected to risk bladder blowup that day. I did once use one, though, and it was marvelous. No, the door didn't open when the waltz ended (I had already been dancing on the sidewalk), but I sure didn't tarry long! When you were finished, the entire inside was washed down with water.

       A word about cafes in France? Germany? Austria? Somewhere. You must buy food in order to use the 'facility.' Okay, I understood that. Fair is fair. But I didn't much like my first European facility. It was the size of a telephone booth. Chiseled into the stone floor were big shoe-shaped indentations. You put your feet in those (usually wet) spots, squatted down, and you were perfectly centered over a hole in the floor.! Lord help those who might be constipated. The thigh muscles would give out before the job was accomplished.