Day Two: Restrooms, Restaurants, and Other Strange Phenomena

August 9, 2016

My neck muscles continued to be pleased after a good night’s sleep.  We were on the bus by 7:15, leaving  Cheektowaga, New York toward our destination for tonight: South Portland, Maine.

Cal and Shirl spoke briefly before we left, sharing memories of Shirl’s mother and the verse, “Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding. . .” for our daily meditation.  It is good to be with people who love the Lord, who encourage us in our faith, even on holiday!  Like the icing on the cake or the cherry on a sundae.

Another wonderful benefit of traveling on a bus filled with friends one rarely sees is that driving time is a great opportunity to catch up on each other’s lives.  And since everyone on the bus is a grandparent, all the grandmothers can share photos of their grandchildren with reckless abandon, bragging on the awesomeness of the offspring of their offspring with a shamelessness of political proportions.  As it is with shared loves, we all enjoy seeing and hearing about these wonderful creatures who call us Nana, Grandma, Grammy, Oma, Granny, or whatever moniker our clan uses.  We, none of us, need to fear the eye-rolling, long-suffering patience of those too young to experience or understand the perfection of our youngest descendants.  Fortunately the use of smart phones enables us to travel without twenty-pound photo albums in tow.

By 8:30 I had spilled a large amount of coffee on my jeans.  Thankful I didn’t pick the white ones this morning, I sopped up my saturated pant leg as best I could and resigned myself to feeling a bit clammy until it air-dried.  At least the aroma of coffee permeating the air was enjoyable.

After two hours we stopped at a truck stop and I was proud of my will-power, passing up the Mini McDonalds within.  Back on the road, the snacks started making their rounds, passed from one seat to the next.  Home-made treats, candy, mustard pretzels and the like.  I left my will power back at the truck stop it seems.  Should the Zombie Apocalypse strike while we are on this trip, starvation will not be an issue.

The scavenger hunt list was handed out yesterday.  So far I have checked off my list a fire hydrant, a sea gull, a Burger King, and a one-hundred dollar bill.  Paul shouted out randomly that he had just seen the woman truck driver on his list and amazingly she had a beard!!  Groans mingled with guffaws ensued.  I have a feeling neither of us stand much chance of winning this contest.

Standing in line at restrooms is an inevitable part of the journey when traveling with a large group of people, all of whom have to attend to the same bodily functions.  The jokes regarding which bathroom to use are frequent, in light of the recent rulings to allow “gender-confused” humans to use whichever suits their fancy.  Since the men’s line is always shorter, or altogether nonexistent, I may loosen my own standards should the urgency become critical.  At least all the instructions are in English and we have no self-cleaning potties along our travel path.  Let me explain.

Several weeks ago Paul and I were enjoying Sunday dinner at a cousin’s house.  Her daughter-in-law relayed a story that has had me laughing at random ever since.  It seems she, along with her husband were traveling on islands off the coast of France where they have self-cleaning facilities. With signs, presumably detailing instructions on toilet usage posted in French, they were quite useless to my non-French-speaking family. Many of these futuristic facilities require payment and certain procedures need to be followed as well, explained thoroughly through the aforementioned signage. In. French.

“We waited in line,” my cousin’s son’s wife explained, “and when it was my turn to go, I caught the door from the person exiting and went in.  As soon as the door clicked shut, the self-cleaning commenced.”  Presumably, the instructions, (did I mention they were in French?) explained that one should NEVER enter the room until after first allowing the door to completely shut, the scrub-down to complete, and THEN one could enter a now-pristine public toilet stall, ready for whatever needed to be accomplished during one’s turn in the space.  Amidst our gales of laughter, she described her own shrieking and panic as the car-wash-like spraying action soaked her, her backpack, her shoes, and everything else in the room, with sanitizing spray.

Gasping for air and wiping my eyes, I told her I’d never heard anything so awesome in my whole life. 

“Oh, it gets better,” her daughter told us drily.  Unsure how that would be possible we listened while the story continued.

“Well, when I was done,” her mother explained, “I could not figure out how to flush the toilet.  I looked everywhere but there was no handle, no button, no sign, nothing.”  Well, except the French instructions of course.  “So I stuck my head out the door, where the line of people were still waiting, and I called my husband to the door.  ‘I can’t figure out how to flush!’ I told him under my breath, so he came inside to help me.  As soon as I heard the door click shut, and heard my husband yell, 'NO!', I realized what we had done.  Again.”

More shrieking ensued but this time it was all of us sitting around the table, laughing until we couldn’t breathe. 

“When we walked out of that door the whole line applauded,” she finished. “We slogged around squishing in our shoes the rest of the day and it was two or three more days before we could laugh about it.  I thought, at least we’ll never see these people again.  Several days later we were waiting in line again with a bunch of strangers and I complained that I was getting tired of paying to go to the bathroom.  The lady behind me looked amused and said, ‘at least this one isn’t self-cleaning.’” 

We all erupted again and I vowed to watch out for self-cleaning toilets in non-English-speaking countries.  I needn't have concerned myself.  The next roadside rest consisted of a row of port-a-johns. No cleaning in evidence, automatic or otherwise.

We traveled a good part of the day through heavy traffic and arrived at the Portland Lighthouse around 7pm.  After a short stop for photo ops we loaded back on the bus for the short ride to our hotel.  We checked into our rooms then set off on the short walk to a restaurant of our choice. A small number of our party went to a Ruby Tuesday's nearby where we were met with a rather unusual hostess.  She told us we'd be better off going to the Longhorn across the parking lot.  Looking around the nearly empty restaurant we assured her she could split up our group however she wished.  She repeated her suggestion that we try the Longhorn.  Well, you don't have to tell me more than twice. Off to the Longhorn we marched where their enthusiastic welcome for our tired and hungry group restored my belief that capitalism is a system with great merit.