Foreign Flushing

By Linda Cole

Foreign travel is a challenge in many ways. To get the full cultural experience, you must try the food; go to places only the locals know about, and, of course, you must eventually get around to using the toilets. On a recent trip to Japan, some of my most memorable experiences had to do with relieving myself.

My husband and I had been invited to come to Kamakura by his old friend, Saturo. He and his wife were delighted that we had agreed to come and visit them and went out of their way over the next ten days to show us as much of Japan as they could. Ah, Japan, where the ancient and the ultra-modern collide. Where you can worship the god of the harvest or get from one side of the country to another on a bullet train.

The facilities at the Tokyo Airport were for international use, but once we left there, I was on my own. By the time we arrived at Saturo’s home, necessity called. Their bathroom, at first glance seemed to have a normal American toilet- a definitely manageable situation. But after, how shall I say it, after I was done, I turned to see my first foreign toilet problem. This Japanese home was very advanced. I looked down and saw eight buttons that I could choose from. They were all labeled clearly enough. Clearly enough, that is, if you could read Japanese characters.

I stood there perplexed. All of a sudden, I no longer felt like a mature adult. Now I was a preschooler alone, facing a contraption containing my refuse and desiring very much to get rid of it, but not knowing how. A hygienic crisis- I was stuck like a cat without a litter box, trying to bury the remains with no sand. Should I guess? Our hosts were probably wondering why I was in there so long. Then I saw it. There on the side of the toilet tank was the familiar silver flushing handle. I don’t know what those other buttons were for, but now I could take control. Grabbing the silver handle confidently, I boldly flushed. Then I emerged from the bathroom as though nothing was wrong.

The next day we went sightseeing, taking a train to see the giant Buddha of Kamakura. Everyone was there from the truly devote to the tourist. We took pictures, went inside the hollow metal body, read its history, and watched the faithful come with offerings of incense and coins. Then we walked down a crowded narrow road to get our udon noodle lunch.

It had been a long morning and now it was time for another bathroom visit. Our friend pointed out the restroom. I went in and closed the door. There it was- the traditional Japanese toilet. A ceramic bowl in the floor. No stand, no elevation at all- just a hole in the floor. I stepped back out for a minute. Was this the men’s room? No, it was clearly marked with the same sign used in America, the Tokyo Airport, and evidently every tourist spot in the country. This hole was for me. I did my best by pretending I was camping, From then on, I made sure I took care of business before I left their house and went as infrequently as I could bear.

I got through the next ten days with only minimal problems. There were no substantial variations on these two kinds of toilets. In homes, the modern toilet was present. In some shops and restaurants, the hole was there.

I was nearing my final day in the land of the rising sun, when we decided to take a trip to an ultra-modern shopping mall. It had everything, including an amusement park with a Ferris wheel that was at least thirty stories high. After a full day, it was that time again. The restroom was easy to find. But this time I was going to outsmart the situation. In an attempt to avoid the hole, I chose to use the toilet for the disabled. They certainly couldn’t expect someone who was in a wheelchair to squat over a hole. I was right. When I opened the sliding wooden door, there it was- a genuine western style toilet. I shut the door, did what I was there to do, and turned to flush.

But how could this be? I had such a great plan. Yet there it was- a new problem. On the wall in front of me, there were two large buttons. One was probably for flushing and the other one was a mystery. Eeny, Meeny, Miney, Moe…. I chose wrong. A voice made an urgent announcement throughout the mall. I didn’t know what it said, but I didn’t want to wait to find out.

I tried to slide the door open. It was stuck. I tried it again. Stuck. After a frantic struggle, I go it open, only to see a line of Japanese women waiting to use the traditional toilets, staring at a crazed white woman. A security guard was coming in the opposite direction towards an apparent emergency in the women’s restroom. I walked as quickly as possible toward my husband who was waiting near the bottom of the escalator.

"What the…"

"Never mind," I said, as I hurried him to the escalator.

I survived the trip and so did my bladder. All of us take things for granted. When I was away I missed the elevation of my bed, my mashed potatoes, and eating cooked fish. But most of all, I missed my own understandable throne.