The fanciest toilet I ever found was in Hiroshima, Japan: a sit-down with 2 arm-rests full of controls. It was Japanese to me, but I pushed the buttons anyway and found I could warm the seat, deodorize the area, start a fountain similar to a bidet, blow dry air and play music. A faucet over the tank seemed awkward to me, so I used the regular sink instead.

No, my hosts never knew I was taking pictures of their bathroom.

Some toilets, especially those equipped with a bidet, come with a remote control.

(Courtesy of Gizmodo)

I found this Japanese squat toilet in a Tokyo hotel.

It played music automatically while I used it, and then as I stood up, it flushed.

It was a swanky hotel so I was surprised- I had always associated squat toilets with poverty.

 

This is the squat toilet in my Nevsehir, Turkey apartment. As described in The Word Not Spoken the toilets in an apartment building are attached to the same drain pipe. There is no need for a flush. The smells coming out of the small cement room are noted by Leigh more than once.

 

The toilet paper on a nail was my Cdn. touch, but the pitcher was there for family and friends who filled it with water and washed instead of wiped.

 

 

The simplest rest stop I found was near Alleppey, Kerala (India) on a backwater boat journey. When our boat stopped for a small thali on a banana leaf for lunch, I was directed to a nearby bamboo screen in answer to “Toilet please?”.

I walked down the beach and looked behind the bamboo screen but saw nothing there. I returned to the outdoor table where my banana leaf waited and asked again.

The tiny waiter pointed impatiently. “There!”

“I don’t think so,” I murmured to a travel companion. “There’s nothing behind it.”

“That’s it!” The more experienced traveller insisted. “Go in the sand and cover it up.”

So I did. I imagined they moved the screen periodically.

The place was quite desolate and I was alone there, so I chose an out of the way spot in Mother Nature rather than step into that concrete-boxed cesspool.

I first ran into floors used as toilets in a train station in Northwest India. The women’s bathroom was 3 stalls without doors. By habit, I chose to face forward when I squatted on the clean tiled floor that sloped toward a trough that ran in front of all 3 stalls. To my absolute dismay, a women with a broom rushed in to clean it as I was leaving. No matter how enormous, the tip I gave her couldn’t erase the shame I felt.

Still, as that train carried me to Jaipur, I saw men and women from nearby slums squatting on tracks parallel to mine, using the area as a long latrine. I turned my head to give them privacy.

I had to replace an old water-guzzling toilet recently. I chose a middle-of-the-line model that economizes water ($225). I am grateful when I flush it – always – but I wish it used river water instead of treated water…you know, when so few of us in the world have access to clean water and sanitation.

I dawdled through the cobblestone streets of Old Montreal. I knew better than to enter the pricey tourist shops or restaurants, but I spent an hour in Notre Dame Basilica where I was stilled by beauty and peace.

 

 

 

I emerged thirsty and walked a few blocks into Chinatown for a coconut bubble tea (which contained no tea or bubbles and was not hot). I turned onto St. Laurent and picked up my pace. After weeks of anticipation I was on my way to Swartz’s. It was a bit of a trek on a hot day, but I stuck to the shady of the street.

I love the streets of Montreal for their character and characters both. Pretty houses with outside staircases and fancy stonework, small businesses without the guidance of head offices. The people: fashionistas, hipsters, druggies, families with dogs, men with that French swagger… I could walk all day just people- watching.

I joined the line-up outside Swartz’s Deli; we were mostly tourists. The locals go across the street, where the smoked meat sandwiches are reportedly even better, but a visit to the historical delicatessen is about more than a great sandwich. Opened by a Jewish immigrant form Romania, Reuban Shwartz, the iconic eatery is listed in every Montreal guidebook. It has been visited by celebrities such as Celine Dion,

Jerry Lewis, Tim Allen, The Rolling Stones and Angelina Jolie. I’ve heard of Shwartz’s sandwiches picked up by private jet. (Finally, a good reason to own a private jet.) Looking for more information about the tiny crowded money-maker? Read the book- Shwartz’s Hebrew Delicatessen: The Story by Bill Brownstein.

It’s a smooth-running operation (guess they got it down after 80 years of practice). When the host called down the line for a “single”, I skipped to the front and was escorted to a stool at the long counter. I couldn’t get a knish- the menu is very streamlined- but I was satisfied with a sandwich and pickle.

It’s a dry crumbly smoked meat- tasty and tender, quite different from the slippery chewy smoked meat in Ottawa delis. I ate slowly, savouring the happy hectic atmosphere around me, the black and whites on the wall, the laughter in the air.

Outside, a kitchen worker smoked in a doorway out of the sun, and I stopped to chat. He goes to Ottawa for the green parks and space. “It is more clean,” he motioned to rubbish at his feet. I laughed. “I come to Montreal for the grit.” I motioned to a guitar player and his open case. “I come for the crowds, the action on the street.”

Indeed, as I walked a few blocks south, I came upon a protest against Monsanto, and a little further on, a street closed to cars but full of open patios cheering a World Cup game.

It was in Ahmedabad, after many months of travel through the giant country called India, that I gave up being a backpacker and became a tourist. I was worn out and wounded: my digestive system would never fully recover, I’d lost 20 lbs. & I was limping. My train had hit a cow, my motor rickshaw had hit a car, my bus had hit an ox, and finally, a pedal rickshaw had hit me.

I’d seen sites of grandeur- Agra’s Taj Mahal, Jaipur’s Palace of Winds; I’d seen sites of squalor- the Calcutta slums, piles of refuse lining roads like snow-banks, thin women making gravel by breaking rocks with picks under a murderous sun.

The physical extremes of India had caused emotional extremes in me: despair in unending heat, joy in monsoon rains, awe at the bowl of stars over me on a desert bed, terror navigating the long jungle path between the restaurant and the beach in the South.

There comes a time, when you are exploring a new place for a lengthy period, that withdrawal becomes absolutely necessary. In India, the only way for me to withdraw was to pay for “luxuries”. For an insane amount ($60/night- what I usually spent in a week), I moved into a hotel that was perfectly cool, into a room that was perfectly sealed (no monkeys coming in through the window here). There was a swimming pool on the roof! There was a bathtub in my room! (It was all about the water after the Thar Desert; if I wasn’t in the tub, I was in the pool.)

The food was edible. More than edible- it was delicious. The hotel knew tourists and the chili was greatly reduced. I’d been living on rice and bananas for some time. (I remember looking forward to “scrambled eggs” on the train. It was included with my berth. Served in little tin tiffins with no accompaniments, the eggs had been scrambled with chopped green chilies and my first bite, my only bite, burned my mouth and brought tears to my eyes.)

I stayed at the luxury hotel, with some guilt, for a couple of weeks. Outside beggars clawed me for money, rickshaws carried ceramic Ganeshas to the sea to be thrown in, noise and vehicles assaulted me, women with wide bare feet pulled carts down hot asphalt…and just when my hackles rose for them, I saw men with the same feet carrying huge bundles on their heads.

Look, India is worth the visit, it’s worth a long visit…the most amazing things I ever saw were in India- cows at bus stops, waterfalls in jungles, rafts in crocodile-infested waters, parrots in trees, camels in deserts, elephants in traffic jams.(read my poem)

I’m just saying: Do it when you’re healthy.

One day I was in some temple complex somewhere, sitting in a shadow, when I saw a white woman. I hadn’t seen a fellow traveller in days. Solo backpackers are always quick to share, friendships are cemented after one conversation- that’s true wherever I travelled, but in India it’s even stronger. We have a concern for each other there.

I got up and walked toward her. We came close to each other, appraising each other’s level of grime. “Are you okay?” I asked seriously.
“I’m coping.” She didn’t smile. She had purple bags under her eyes and a red tika on her forehead that had dripped over the bridge of her nose. “And you?”
“Ditto.” My smile was rueful.
She looked into my eyes and we connected in a very solid way. “It takes its toll,” she said.
I nodded.
It was unbearably hot standing there in the sun. She stepped into a nearby temple door without saying good-bye. I didn’t mind. It was too hot to talk. I headed back to the shade, my dizziness tempered by her gaze.

Outside Chiang Mai Wat in Thailand, an old woman sells birds in tiny bamboo cages. For a pittance you are granted the power to free a creature into the sky. I bought them all.

The largest bird cage I’ve seen rests on the summer patio of my favourite restaurant (Fall River, outside Perth, Ontario). It’s easily 8 feet across and 6 feet tall, several feet deep and full of twittering colours making quick jumps from side to side to side, from top to bottom to top.

I stood in front of it one afternoon wondering at their lives- the crowding, the sweet breeze sweeping in, the untouchable sky. I felt that it was like sitting in a classroom in the spring when the only thing you want is Out, when your body yearns to run, and the clock will not tick.

After 10 minutes or so, a man at a nearby table said, “Can you imagine how it feels to be able to fly but unable to fly?” I answered immediately. “I know how that feels. I am stuck in this body.”

It’s supposed to bring luck to open a tiny bamboo cage in Thailand and free a tortured soul, but really it’s like ringing the dismissal bell at 3:10. It’s like being God and allowing death.

Indian Railways tickets are dirt cheap. The trains are crowded, uncomfortable, slow and unbearably hot. They are often hours, sometimes days, late. More than once, I sat in a train station for more than 24 hours, amazed at the chaos and incredulous that no one seemed bothered by it. The absolute best thing about the train is that you can run- if you’re late, or if you jumped off at a station to buy bananas- you can run even though the train has started moving, and you can catch it- grab a handle and jump on like some kind of hero.

This photo is taken from a train I was on, through the window. The windows don’t have panes of glass, just two metal bars across a large opening. At this station, the professional beggars took some time to dawdle, as all children are wont to do, and watched the workers work. The boy is a spray-painted silver Ghandi. (Click photo for close up.)

Many homeless people sleep in the stations. For the rest of my life I will remember a thin man and a thinner woman lying on a grey rag, spread neatly on the cement floor by a track, with the tiniest baby nestled between them, too tiny to be alive, I thought. They were defenseless and had to be exhausted to sleep in such a place. But they had nothing to steal, it seemed.
Ah, but still, they had the rag! You might think it was nothing…you might mistake it for garbage.

One day, a train stopped right beside mine, and I surreptitiously watched a young woman eat newspaper-wrapped curry and rice with her fingers. When she finished, she dropped the wrapping out the window onto the tracks between our trains. As I was judging this “littering”, a boy swooped down the track, grabbed the newspaper, opened it and licked it, sucked it and then tossed it on the ground. “Oh,” I thought, “Now it’s garbage.” Before my train moved, a goat came along and ate the newspaper. And I learned that nothing is really garbage.

Train robbers were a real threat- I was told they were bandits who would stop a train, come aboard and rob each passenger and then disembark. Once my train stopped in the middle of the night with a lurch. I rolled right out of my short bunk with a thud, scared the bandits had come. In fact, we had hit a cow and didn’t move the rest of the night.

I met families who brought stoves and cooked whole meals on the trains where we slept, talked, played games and music, and for some time, lived together. (It took four days to get to Delhi from Bangalore.) They told wonderful stories too. My favourite was about a woman who had terrible stomach pains. She went to the bathroom, which is simply a hole over the rushing tracks (please hold it ’til we get out of the station). To her surprise, when she squatted, a baby popped out of her, slid down the hole and disappeared. The train stopped, and they went back to pick up the baby who was perfectly fine, waiting on the tracks.

On a menu: “Rare cheese cake.”

On a menu: “Cheese washed potatoes.”

On a white t-shirt with a pink kitten worn by a preteen on the subway: “Beat me.” (She wouldn’t have known what it meant.)

On a peach t-shirt with flowers: “I love him truly. He is handsome and rich. He makes jokes at my expense.”

On a t-shirt: “Individuality. I’d like to be familiar with fashions, but I won’t be carried by them. Those who are sticky about their way of life are nonethe-less wonderful.”

On a water glass in a restaurant: “A glassful of drops. Each drop is tomorrow’s dream. Sip your dreams by drops.”

Sports announcer on TV: “When I watched the first game I felt the world cup games had begun.” No further comment.

News announcer wrapping up a news report on land mines in Egypt: “You can feel the terror as the people walk through the fields-but they have to live here. That is their fate and that is all we have to say.” That’s what my bilingual TV translated.

A group of male Japanese teachers inviting a visiting American teacher out: “We’re going to get prostitutes tonight. Want to come?”

High school class answers the question: What is a disadvanatage of being good-looking?

– The good-looking seem to be tired.

– Good-looking is threatened by storker (stalker).

Very advanced student: “I turned and toasted all night.”

And my favourite: “Big scream TV.”

Anne has travelled throughout Europe and northern Africa without paying for accommodation. She couch surfs! What a great way to travel!

To learn more about couchsurfing watch this short interview where Anne claims “Couches are everywhere,” in a house that has no couch. We are sitting on Turkish floor cushions.

(We can’t watch this without laughing our heads off- our first taped interview- so please forgive our mistakes. She’d given me the ring to wear as a joke, but no, the ring didn’t cause the bruise, and no, I didn’t just wake up- I was ready to go and sing at a Shout Sister performance!)