There's Been Another Bathroom Incident

Because of course there has.

Remember last year when I was traveling with my friend Ros and walked face-first into a bathroom closet? Well, I traveled with Ros again, and there’s been another bathroom incident.

Because of course there has.

And this one’s worse. It’s so much worse.

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Last time I traveled with Ros, we were singing in a choral performance at the Lincoln Center in New York City. This time, we ventured abroad, singing together in a two-hundred-voice choir at Ely Cathedral in England.

Singing in a space like this, on a site dedicated for worship since 673—the present structure dating from 1083—was an amazing experience. As for the concert itself, the music was sublime. (Excerpt here.)

The choir learned the music in advance and practiced in Cambridge for only three days before the performance. However, Ros and I arrived in London earlier in the week, grappling with jet lag, touring the sites, and taking turns saving one another from being struck by red double-decker buses.

And getting into debacles.

It's what we do.

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Our second night in London, we took a sunset dinner cruise down the Thames. Seated right in the front, we had the best views on the boat, offering sweeping views of the cityscapes as we slid gently down the river, enjoying food, drink, and companionable chatter with our dinner partners, a retired couple from Florida.

Sometime before dessert was served, I slipped away to visit the facilities. Despite bathroom debacles having become a staple of my existence, I was feeling no undue concern or apprehension about this endeavor.

Which, now that I think of it, is perhaps a contributing problem.

I walked the length of the narrow vessel, eyes darting for signs. Dodging other diners and members of the wait staff crowding the narrow aisles, at last, back by the kitchen, I spotted a small round sign reading WC, accompanied by an arrow pointing down a long set of steep, metal stairs.

I scurried down, glad to have found my way.

At the bottom of the steps, however, instead of dividing one way for men’s and another for women’s, I found only one option: a hard left directly into an open-door bathroom filled with stalls.

Odd, but okay. It’s a boat. There’s not a lot of space. Maybe, like airlines, there are just individual-use options.

I scooted into the first stall, turned around, and—that’s odd. This just seemed like a regular bathroom stall, complete with a small gap between the door and the doorframe and all.

Oh, well. No time to worry about it. There were more pressing matters at hand. I did what needed to be done, flushed, and turned to open the stall door.

That’s when it happened.

A man entered the restroom, walking purposefully past my stall. And not just any man. Our table partner.

That’s when I knew for sure.

I’d somehow ended up in the men’s room.

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My options for escaping unnoticed were limited.

I could wait until he finished and left, of course. But in waiting, I only risked more men coming in, leaving me stuck there indefinitely.

I couldn’t very well just hide in the first stall of the men’s restroom all night. Ros would think I’d fallen overboard.

My best chance for escape was clearly now, while he was doing whatever it was he was doing.

I opened the stall door a crack, peering out. No one was at the sinks, and the stalls were all still empty, doors partially open. In the reflection of the mirror hanging above the sinks, I could see our dinner partner, standing with his back to the room, facing the wall on the far end of the stalls.

Ah, yes. That must be where the urinals were. Which explained why I hadn’t noticed them.

Now was my chance.

Noiselessly, I slipped from the stall, shimmied sideways through the door, and scurried up the narrow metal steps, earnestly praying I didn’t encounter anyone on his way down.

Which reminded me. Right when I’d made my hard left to head down the stairs in the first place, I’d made eye contact with a member of the staff, who’d smiled at me.

Why did he not stop me? Then again, we’re in the era of not questioning anyone’s bathroom choices, and given what he likely earns per hour, I can understand him not wanting to stick his oar in, as it were.

But still. He could have prevented this.

Of course, so could I, had I been paying even a scrap of attention.

I scrambled up the steps, thanking God I’d worn my slip-on canvas sneakers with my dress rather than heels.

As I summited the steps, I immediately saw my error. Straight across the vessel on the other side were the stairs down to the women’s facilities, and while there was the same WC sign and arrow on the wall, affixed to the ceiling just above the doorway, illuminated in green neon lights, was the universal symbol of the skirted female.

Keenly aware that I hadn’t washed my hands, I capitalized on the momentum that had propelled me to the top of the stairs to shoot straight across the aisle and clatter down the steps to the women’s room, praying everyone else on the cruise was too engrossed in staring at the London Embankment to notice a swirly-eyed, frazzle-haired woman in a sundress and sneakers doing a Loony Toons run across the ship just before the dessert course.

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I arrived back at the table, sweaty and still half panicked, to find Ros in her own world, serenely staring out at the scenery, and our seat partner chatting comfortably with his wife. From the way he reacted when I returned (or didn’t react, as the case was), I could tell he hadn’t seen me in the men’s room.

It wasn’t until hours later, as Ros and I were headed across London Bridge on foot, making our way for a late-night visit to Aqua Shard as an elegant way to close out the night with twinkling, cityscape views, that I told her the whole story. Though it had been burning within me the whole time, I didn’t trust either of us to retain any measure of composure in such a small space.

It’s good that I waited. We walked along the Thames, up and over London Bridge, the evening breeze sweeping through our hair as we doubled over, cackling, exclaiming over the hilarity and ridiculousness of it all.

Tired as we were, we made it to the top of the Shard, were seated right by a window, and leaned back in our seats, taking it all in—the lights, the night sky, the bigness of the moment. The wonder of it all—that we were here, in this place together, having these experiences, living these lives, the highs and the lows and the embarrassments of it all.

At the end of the night, with a lengthy late-night commute back to our hotel ahead of us, I decided we should use the facilities before we left.

This time, when I went searching for the restrooms, Ros came with me.

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