Switzerland. The land of yummie bread and awesome cheese. And beer, served to kids 16 and older. Sweet land of opportunity. Oh, and European boys who kiss you on the cheek when you meet them. Sigh. What a forward thinking country.
My sister was lucky enough to go to school in Switzerland for a few years. I was lucky enough to visit her. We ate delicious food, drank delicious beer, and saw some delicious mountains. Even the cows (who we did not eat) were deliciously beautiful. I can not think of one bad thing about the place. Unless gluttony is bad. Then, I guess the fondue was horrible. I have never in my life engorged myself on so much cheese and bread.
On one of my visits to see my sister, we went out with a couple of her teachers and other friends, for fondue…. again. We were at this gorgeous restaurant, overlooking the Swiss Alps, imbibing and cheesing ourselves into an early, cholesterol ridden grave. Inevitably, there came a time when we had to pee out some of that beer (to make room for some more). My sister and I went off in search of the bathrooms (because girls ALWAYS must have a bathroom partner, even in Europe).
Maybe it was the confusing layout of the restaurant. Maybe it was the language barrier. Maybe it was the beer. We understood that the bathrooms were downstairs. Down, down, down we went. Seemed like a long way to get to a toilet. We ended up in the basement of the restaurant. We giggled. Because that’s what always happens when we are together, especially when we have bellies full of cheese and beer. Giggling, of course, made us have to pee even more desperately. Here we are in a cement basement, giggling, squeezing our hands between our legs, trying not to pee our pants.
What would you do? It is hard to climb stairs when you need to pee that bad. Go ahead and try it. It’s damn near impossible.
So. We did it. We peed in the restaurant basement. I’m not proud, but I am laughing. Two teenage girls peeing on a concrete floor. I was laughing so hard, it’s a wonder that I didn’t fall right over, with my pants around my ankles like that, into my own puddle. We quickly pulled up our pants and started up the stairs. Not 30 seconds after beginning our ascent we passed a waiter who was going down to the storage area, where we had just peed. We were choking back fits of laughter, both of us thanking our lucky stars that we are super fast pee-ers. It’s a hereditary gift. My sister is the fastest pee-er in the West! I strive to one day have her speed.
As we reach the main level, there off to the side is a door with a sign on it that looks like… well… what do you know. There’s the toilet. How on earth did we miss that on the way down the stairs??
I will pee when and where I need to. It may be the one time that I admit to having penis envy. That just really isn’t fair. Boys can do this while they drive? What a skill. The last time I dropped my pants to pee out in the open, I was snowshoeing and had managed to break off the trail just far enough that I had actually doubled right back onto the trail. I had snow pants down. Long underwear down. Underwear down. Parka up. Midstream I hear voices. I pulled my pants up so fast, too fast to actually stop peeing. There were four guys, snowshoeing right up to my yellow snow. I ran off the trail, but escaping from people, in half pulled up, rather damp, snow pants while wearing giant snow shoes is not an easy feat. I prefer doing it in a toilet, but if it’s required and I’ll be making room for more cheese and beer, a concrete floor will suffice. I sure hope we didn’t pee on any of their cheese.
I love cheese and my bubble is an extra cheesy place. It is stinky cheese, unless cooked just right. Raclette is my absolute favorite. So, if you walk by and smell decomposing bodies or stinky feet, it’s probably just my cheese. And you’re welcome to have some, but there is a slight possibility that is has been peed on.