R.
18 Oct 2005, 22:11
Now this is probably the funniest travel report I have ever read.
It's kinda gross sometimes, but nevertheless very well written and ... priceless.
Did I mention that this story is kinda gross?
It's called European Defecation
In the early 90's I was a sailor stationed onboard the aircraft carrier USS Dwight D. Eisenhower. My story takes place halfway through a six-month "Med Cruise." It was Christmastime and the crew was enjoying a well-deserved port visit.
To be honest, I can't remember if we were in France or Italy. Frankly, all of Europe looks the same to me: narrow winding streets, hardcore pornography on every newsstand, crowded little restaurants with tiny tables, and a bizarre penchant for keeping the front doors of said establishments wide open even during the coldest of months. Call me uncultured, but I was quite unimpressed with the whole experience. In fact, the whole time I was there I pined to enjoy the simple pleasure of a Budweiser and a bacon cheeseburger in an extra-wide booth at a Lone Star Steakhouse.
I've always been an early bird, and on the second day of this port visit (a Sunday), I left the ship and hit the town by eight AM. Although it was bone-chillingly cold, the sunrise over the Mediterranean that morning was spectacular -- a brilliant orange-red, streaked with shades of purple. I remember that as I stared at it, an old superstition came to mind: "Red sky at night, sailor's delight. Red sky in morning, sailors take warning." Silly wives' tale, right? I used to think so, too. But be assured, my friends, there was a hurricane-caliber shitstorm abrewin' that morning.
Not much was opened at that hour on a weekend, and I had spent thirty dollars on an international phone call to my wife only the day before, so I decided to get some breakfast. I could feel a shit coming on, but the need wasn't yet urgent, so I ignored it for the time. Now, as I've already alluded, I'm not big on foreign or ethnic cuisine, so eating in overseas restaurants has never been much fun. I usually tried to find things on the menu that were as familiar as possible. That morning I settled on a goat-cheese omelet (the Euroweenies are big on goat cheese), some kind of suspicious-tasting sausage, and coffee. The coffee over there is a thick sludge served in tiny little cups. It was only later that I learned to order cafe Americano to get normal coffee.
After finishing my breakfast, I paid my bill and got up to leave. As I did so there was a churning in my guts. The need to shit had suddenly become much more intense. The day before I'd drunk about fifteen Heinekens, and upon my return to the ship I'd eaten a huge serving of beef stroganoff on the mess decks. Adding the goat cheese and coffee sludge to the party was starting to seem like a bad idea.
As it turns out, it was the perfect storm.
Since the squall in my guts was quickly building to a gale force, I decided to detour to the head before leaving. What I saw when I walked through the bathroom door confounds me to this day.
There were no stalls, no urinals, and no commodes. Just a single, square, porcelain platform roughly four feet on each side and maybe eight inches high. In the middle was a hole about the size of a basketball. How was one supposed to shit in this thing? Was one even supposed to shit in this thing? Even more confusing was the fact that this was a unisex john -- the only one in the restaurant.
Gritting my teeth, I decided to seek more familiar accommodations.
Going back to the ship wasn't an option. You see, aircraft carriers don't pull pier-side in foreign ports. Rather, they anchor offshore and contract with local ferry owners to shuttle the sailors back and forth to the beach. With a crew of almost six thousand coming and going around the clock, you can imagine the lines one had to wait in just to board a ferry on either end. There was no way I could wait that long.
This time, I realized, I'd have to plant my flag on foreign soil.
So I left the eatery and went in search of another. With growing panic I realized that it was still early and there still weren't many establishments open for business. I had to walk about five blocks before finding another restaurant without a closed sign on the door.
I rushed in and headed straight for the bathroom, again the sole unisex facility.
I saw the same thing.
No stalls. No urinals. No commodes. Just that strange goddamn platform.
Again I left.
By now I was riding out a full-blown intestinal tempest, my insides pitching and rolling like a flat-bottomed frigate in the North Atlantic. My asshole had gone to General Quarters and was sending distress signals, indicating it wouldn't be able to maintain its watertight integrity for much longer. I vowed to shit in the next bathroom I found, no matter what.
After another five blocks or so and I found an open restaurant. I entered, bathed in a cold sweat despite the frigid December temperatures. The hostess greeted me with a look of concern, but I ignored her, my eyes searching frantically for the lavatory. I spied it at the rear of the room and lurched in its direction -- head down, hands gripping my stomach, a starboard list to my stride.
I was neither surprised nor disappointed to find another porcelain platform.
What was disheartening, however, was the realization that the ****ing lock on the door didn't work.
No matter. I was out of time and it was either make due (no pun intended) here and now, or shit my britches. Thus, with a stoic resolve, I climbed on stage, dropped my pants to my ankles, and squatted over that damnable hole.
Despite the horribly awkward position, I'm confident my aim was true. Unfortunately the payload I was carrying in no way resembled a series of guided missiles. Instead it was a napalm-like spray that splattered the rear half of my platform and much of the back wall.
The contractions continued, and I mercilessly dumped load after load of ordnance on that unsuspecting and undeserving porcelain village beneath me.
In all the excitement, I'd forgotten about the broken lock.
Suddenly the doorframe was filled with a middle-aged woman. She froze and half-screamed as she locked eyes with this bare-assed ambassador from the land of the free. My butthole, as if in protest of this final indignity, emitted one last wet, powerful burst. The woman screamed again, this time louder, but finally found the sense to slam the door.
With my ammunition spent and my cover having been blown, all that was left was the clean up. God must have taken a small degree of mercy on me that day because there was some toilet paper. It was something I hadn't even thought to look for in the initial heat of battle; and I sent up a small prayer of thanks.
Unfortunately, there wasn't much. And since combat conditions call for triage, I used every last bit of it to clean the shit that had spattered my rear and my balls and had dripped down my legs. I sent another prayer of thanks that my pants had not been part of the collateral damage.
Once I'd put myself together, I steeled myself for a moment and then stepped out. Every customer in the restaurant turned to look at me. With an effort I held my head high; but I purposely avoided making eye contact with anyone. I made haste to leave the little eatery, as I had no desire to be present when the proprietors realized how completely I'd defiled their bathroom.
And to this day, whenever I hear a news report of the strained relationship between Europe and the United States, I can't help but feel in some small way directly responsible.
-- PatrioticPooper
http://www.poopreport.com/Travel/Content/European/european.html
It's kinda gross sometimes, but nevertheless very well written and ... priceless.
Did I mention that this story is kinda gross?
It's called European Defecation
In the early 90's I was a sailor stationed onboard the aircraft carrier USS Dwight D. Eisenhower. My story takes place halfway through a six-month "Med Cruise." It was Christmastime and the crew was enjoying a well-deserved port visit.
To be honest, I can't remember if we were in France or Italy. Frankly, all of Europe looks the same to me: narrow winding streets, hardcore pornography on every newsstand, crowded little restaurants with tiny tables, and a bizarre penchant for keeping the front doors of said establishments wide open even during the coldest of months. Call me uncultured, but I was quite unimpressed with the whole experience. In fact, the whole time I was there I pined to enjoy the simple pleasure of a Budweiser and a bacon cheeseburger in an extra-wide booth at a Lone Star Steakhouse.
I've always been an early bird, and on the second day of this port visit (a Sunday), I left the ship and hit the town by eight AM. Although it was bone-chillingly cold, the sunrise over the Mediterranean that morning was spectacular -- a brilliant orange-red, streaked with shades of purple. I remember that as I stared at it, an old superstition came to mind: "Red sky at night, sailor's delight. Red sky in morning, sailors take warning." Silly wives' tale, right? I used to think so, too. But be assured, my friends, there was a hurricane-caliber shitstorm abrewin' that morning.
Not much was opened at that hour on a weekend, and I had spent thirty dollars on an international phone call to my wife only the day before, so I decided to get some breakfast. I could feel a shit coming on, but the need wasn't yet urgent, so I ignored it for the time. Now, as I've already alluded, I'm not big on foreign or ethnic cuisine, so eating in overseas restaurants has never been much fun. I usually tried to find things on the menu that were as familiar as possible. That morning I settled on a goat-cheese omelet (the Euroweenies are big on goat cheese), some kind of suspicious-tasting sausage, and coffee. The coffee over there is a thick sludge served in tiny little cups. It was only later that I learned to order cafe Americano to get normal coffee.
After finishing my breakfast, I paid my bill and got up to leave. As I did so there was a churning in my guts. The need to shit had suddenly become much more intense. The day before I'd drunk about fifteen Heinekens, and upon my return to the ship I'd eaten a huge serving of beef stroganoff on the mess decks. Adding the goat cheese and coffee sludge to the party was starting to seem like a bad idea.
As it turns out, it was the perfect storm.
Since the squall in my guts was quickly building to a gale force, I decided to detour to the head before leaving. What I saw when I walked through the bathroom door confounds me to this day.
There were no stalls, no urinals, and no commodes. Just a single, square, porcelain platform roughly four feet on each side and maybe eight inches high. In the middle was a hole about the size of a basketball. How was one supposed to shit in this thing? Was one even supposed to shit in this thing? Even more confusing was the fact that this was a unisex john -- the only one in the restaurant.
Gritting my teeth, I decided to seek more familiar accommodations.
Going back to the ship wasn't an option. You see, aircraft carriers don't pull pier-side in foreign ports. Rather, they anchor offshore and contract with local ferry owners to shuttle the sailors back and forth to the beach. With a crew of almost six thousand coming and going around the clock, you can imagine the lines one had to wait in just to board a ferry on either end. There was no way I could wait that long.
This time, I realized, I'd have to plant my flag on foreign soil.
So I left the eatery and went in search of another. With growing panic I realized that it was still early and there still weren't many establishments open for business. I had to walk about five blocks before finding another restaurant without a closed sign on the door.
I rushed in and headed straight for the bathroom, again the sole unisex facility.
I saw the same thing.
No stalls. No urinals. No commodes. Just that strange goddamn platform.
Again I left.
By now I was riding out a full-blown intestinal tempest, my insides pitching and rolling like a flat-bottomed frigate in the North Atlantic. My asshole had gone to General Quarters and was sending distress signals, indicating it wouldn't be able to maintain its watertight integrity for much longer. I vowed to shit in the next bathroom I found, no matter what.
After another five blocks or so and I found an open restaurant. I entered, bathed in a cold sweat despite the frigid December temperatures. The hostess greeted me with a look of concern, but I ignored her, my eyes searching frantically for the lavatory. I spied it at the rear of the room and lurched in its direction -- head down, hands gripping my stomach, a starboard list to my stride.
I was neither surprised nor disappointed to find another porcelain platform.
What was disheartening, however, was the realization that the ****ing lock on the door didn't work.
No matter. I was out of time and it was either make due (no pun intended) here and now, or shit my britches. Thus, with a stoic resolve, I climbed on stage, dropped my pants to my ankles, and squatted over that damnable hole.
Despite the horribly awkward position, I'm confident my aim was true. Unfortunately the payload I was carrying in no way resembled a series of guided missiles. Instead it was a napalm-like spray that splattered the rear half of my platform and much of the back wall.
The contractions continued, and I mercilessly dumped load after load of ordnance on that unsuspecting and undeserving porcelain village beneath me.
In all the excitement, I'd forgotten about the broken lock.
Suddenly the doorframe was filled with a middle-aged woman. She froze and half-screamed as she locked eyes with this bare-assed ambassador from the land of the free. My butthole, as if in protest of this final indignity, emitted one last wet, powerful burst. The woman screamed again, this time louder, but finally found the sense to slam the door.
With my ammunition spent and my cover having been blown, all that was left was the clean up. God must have taken a small degree of mercy on me that day because there was some toilet paper. It was something I hadn't even thought to look for in the initial heat of battle; and I sent up a small prayer of thanks.
Unfortunately, there wasn't much. And since combat conditions call for triage, I used every last bit of it to clean the shit that had spattered my rear and my balls and had dripped down my legs. I sent another prayer of thanks that my pants had not been part of the collateral damage.
Once I'd put myself together, I steeled myself for a moment and then stepped out. Every customer in the restaurant turned to look at me. With an effort I held my head high; but I purposely avoided making eye contact with anyone. I made haste to leave the little eatery, as I had no desire to be present when the proprietors realized how completely I'd defiled their bathroom.
And to this day, whenever I hear a news report of the strained relationship between Europe and the United States, I can't help but feel in some small way directly responsible.
-- PatrioticPooper
http://www.poopreport.com/Travel/Content/European/european.html