I need to get off this bus and find a toilet.
Cow tongue for dinner probably wasn’t the best choice last night.
So much for being adventurous.
Yup, I’m getting off.
It’s pouring rain and I don’t think there’s a public restroom in the area.
There wasn’t one in the grocery store last time I checked.
Living in South America has been a good experience, but if they give me a comment card on the way out, I’m going to recommend more toilets. And apologize to anybody who was forced to witness a white dude shitting in an alley somewhere near the corner of 12 de Octubre and Mariscal Foch.
Is there an alley here?
I don’t have much time.
Wait, that brewery I haven’t been to yet might have a bathroom.
In from the rain, I ask the hostess.
Yes, in that direction.
The toilet marked for the male variety of humans is occupied. Or, at least, it’s locked. I don’t wait around to see if there’s an actual soul behind the door.
I’ll use the women’s if necessary. If it’s open, no scrutiny will descend until I emerge.
Thank god.
There’s a third. A family toilet? Or for wheelchair users?
Doesn’t matter.
Right now it’s for me.
Relief. Thank you jesus. My panic dances away on the throne of mercy.
I used to be a fervent believer. This would have been another example of grace.
Now, I’ll leave it up to good fortune.
I’m sure a poor soul is shitting in the alley somewhere else in the world.
For now, this brewery is my savior.
I should repay it and become a patron.
But when I leave the restroom, I see a clear path to the door.
I hope that grace is real and stride through the entry, back into the rain.
.
.
.