WC

Traveling for me is like taking a tour of another city’s Starbucks toilets.

I spent all of yesterday in Washington D.C. (taking care of some top secret government stuff) and measured the day in bathrooms. Let me be clear, I am not confessing some dark digestive woes. I am just a girl with a small to average sized bladder, who has to pee a normal amount of times. Yet, whenever I travel I find my sole concern being where I’m going to relieve myself in each new, barren, toilet-less jungle. Except at least in a jungle you can just go in a pile leaves. Every time I was headed to a new spot, I was derailed by an immediate need (ok, I have the bladder of an elderly Pomeranian) to find a bathroom. And this went on and on, until I realized I might as well have stayed home, where I already have acquired a GPS like accuracy when it comes to finding hidden public restrooms. I mean, where the public toilets at? What are tourists supposed to do when they have to…do?

Maybe I’m a little too focused on this and maybe most people have it all figured out. All I know is that I skipped the Washington Monument to wait in a long bathroom line at Pret a Manger in Capitol Hill. Three times. And that ain’t right.

 

 

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