Spaz Vs. the Turkish Toilet
*After ya’ll are done reading this, head on over to the Offended Blogger to check out my guest post!
Many, many years ago (about 14 to be exact), I was a young teenaged lad excited about a trip to Italy. By myself.
Ok, I was to be staying with family friends once I got there, but hey, knowing me I would have been shot by the mob within half an hour left to my own devices. Actually, I was almost shot by the airport security. See, there are a few things I didn’t know about the Italian airport security:
- They carry automatic weapons
- Unlike the Canadian airport security at the time, they aren’t wimps and:
- They aren’t afraid to point their weapons at you as they are yelling at you.
Oh, did I mention I didn’t speak a word of Italian?
But I made it out alive. There were other mistakes of cultural ignorance I made, however. Like:
- Thinking the bidet in the washroom was actually a foot wash
- Not understanding that Italian doorbells look exactly like light switches (I swear I was looking for the damned thing for 15 minutes)
- Discovering that there is no legal age limit to consuming alcohol AND everybody wanting to feed you the damned stuff (that in and of itself is a story or ten).
- Being a hormone riddled teenager and not being told that ALL beaches in Italy are clothing optional (BOOOOIIINNNNGGG!)
- Shortly thereafter discovering that Italian women of a certain age (probably about 25 or so) no longer feel the need for a razor. (eewwwwwwwwww).
- Learning a new word in Italian without bothering to learn it’s meaning and repeating it to a woman (my cheek is STILL red).
Trust me folks, the above list is NOT exhaustive.
But all those are other stories for other days. Today, I’ll tell you the story of my first experience with a Turkish toilet.
As I was staying with an Italian family, I was cordially invited to many family and friend related functions. One of them was a wedding. Normally I don’t really care for the weddings themselves; my interests always lie in the reception. This was a bit different because it was a Johova’s Witness wedding (yes, they’ve made it to Italy those annoying door knockers that won’t go away) and I was rather interested to see how one of those went about. Of course, I had only been there for four days and I still didn’t speak a word of Italian. Except for “I want a beer please”. I learned that one right quick.
The reception was interesting. I was enjoying a malto grande beer and some deep fried whatsits when my buddy told me to slow down on the food. “Take it easy” he said “it’s a big dinner. Trust me.”
I wasn’t worried. See, at that time I had a Ferrari like metabolism, and I was 170 lbs of all muscle and very little fat (that ratio has changed a tad nowadays). I could eat like a horse and once even got kicked out of an all you can eat buffet. I felt confident I could take on ANY dinner without a problem at all.
“OK” he said, “but I want to see you eat ALL of it.”
“And some of yours too,” I replied smugly.
As it turns out the three and a half foot tall midget sitting beside me finished my dinner and some of his too. Where he put it, I don’t know, but I’m thinking inside that huge bulbous head of his.
You see, the dinner was twenty-three courses long and took six hours to complete. I know have only respect and awe for Italian cooking skills and those who can keep up. Utter respect.
There was an intermission at course twelve. A FRICKING intermission in a MEAL. They served some sort of ice drink (with copious amounts of rum) that was supposed to “cleanse the pallet”. If by cleansing the pallet they meant “make you need to poo”, then yes, it did its job quite well.
That’s when I ran into the Turkish toilet. I quickly found the washroom and flung open the door to stall #1. There was nothing but a porcelain hole in the ground. Huh. Stall #2 and #3 were the same. I was utterly confused, but I noticed the toilet paper roll (hung 6” from the floor), so I guess that’s where you go poo.
I entered the stall, pulled down my pants and undies, and attempted to squat over the hole. I fell. I tried it again. I fell again. And a third time with the same results.
I then decided I was going to hold it, because after all, falling into poo will make you stink (so I’m told). The stain would also be especially noticeable on the white pants I was wearing.
So, three hours later the meal was done, and I was looking forward to going home to a real toilet (and a foot wash). Except my friends had other plans. One A.M. Italian time is PARTY TIME! My ass didn’t get to a toilet till five am, when I experienced my first ever bout of bum pow.
But that, my friends, is another story for another time.
