All Dressed Up And...

I have three books with me that are about Korea. One is a travel guide, one is a phrasebook (with helpful, guidebook-like hints), and one is a dictionary.

All of these books have been extremely helpful in a number of ways, except one: none of these books mention toilets.

Oh, sure, they tell you how to ask for directions to the toilet, and they tell you how to identify which door says "Men" and which door says "Women."

Once you go through that door, however, the guidebooks let go of your hand and you are on your own.

Why, I hear you ponder intelligently, would one require assistance in the W.C.? Read on, you brave soul, you.

I assume that if you come to Korea for only a week or so, and stay in a very modern and/or westernized hotel, and only eat at places like Planet Hollywood or TGIFriday's or or McDonald's, you may never notice a difference in restroom situations.

Oh, lucky you.

When I first arrived in Korea, I was deposited in a yogwan, a tiny hotel with maybe ten rooms, each with a private bathroom. After bidding goodnight to my boss and coworker (they had picked me up at the airport and treated me to dinner), I went into the bathroom.

Normal-looking toilet. Normal-looking toilet paper. I used both (he wrote, discreetly) and flushed it all down. I did this a couple more times in the next few days.

I began to notice something interesting. The toilet bowl was backing up. Not enough to overflow or anything, but just enough to seem, well, kind of sluggish. As if my presence had taken away all the enthusiasm this poor toilet had ever had for its job.

I tried to explain the situation to the incredibly small woman who ran the place. I looked up "toilet" and "doesn't work" in my phrasebook, and she made plunger motions with her hands while rattling off a whole bunch of Korean, a questioning look upon her face. I nodded like a plastic car-dog, and made plunger motions of my own.

A connection was made! Awright! I went out to find something to eat.

I returned an hour or so later to find a clean-up crew in my private bathroom. The plunging had been quite effective as it had dislodged a small mound of wet pulpy toilet paper onto the floor.

Among other things (he wrote, discretely).

My landlady sloshed over to me, pointed to the mound of wet paper, then to the toilet, all the while shaking her head violently "NO." She then pointed to the paper again and then to the wastebasket, nodding her head vigorously "YES."

Another connection was made: "Put your used toilet paper in the wastebasket, NOT the toilet."

Oh...ooookaaay...

Just as I'm sure none of the guidebooks for foreigners coming to America mention this charming little difference, none of my books about Korea mention it either.

I wonder how many Koreans visiting the United States have received strange, uncomprehending looks from hotel maids who discovered lots of used toilet paper in the wastebasket. Mounds of it. Piles of it.

Maybe I'm projecting.

I started working at the language institute the day after I arrived. The school is in a fairly modern building about a fifteen-minute walk from where I was staying. I needed to use the restroom at work that day, located one, and went in.

You have got to be kidding, I thought.

There was no seat. There was no commode. There was no throne. There was a porcelain hole in the tiled floor, 2 1/2 feet long by 1 foot wide, with a small porcelain..."splash guard," I guess, coming up from one end and rising in a graceful Sydney-Opera-House-ish arc for a good six inches. The whole thing resembled a very tiny, sunken bathtub with a stylish steam hood.

I am not a stupid man. I am 32 years old, have two degrees, a teaching credential, and have been on the Dean's List the few semesters I could stay away from the El Torito Happy Hour.

I stared dumbly at this hole in the floor. I couldn't even tell which way I should face when I...uh...used it.

And there's no toilet paper. You are supposed to supply your own.

Oh...ooookaaay...

I was not feeling particularily agile just then, and had no paper of my own, so the simultaneous "Squat-Balance-Lean-Support-and-Wipe," while not an Olympic event yet, was still not on my agenda for the day.

So, I waited until I could walk home to my nice, comfy, Western toilet.

Six hours later.

It was the longest fifteen-minute walk I'd ever taken. Ever.

My point (thanks for waiting) is this: elimination of waste is universal. Everyone eats, everyone poops. If a guidebook wants to help ease your way into another country, the very least it can do is give you enough information to help ease your way into the restroom.

It may not have saved that pair of pants a few days later, but it would have been nice to know that I wasn't the first American with lousy aim.