Rebecca Forster's Blog, page 5

STUMPED

The other day I came home to find the men we hired to build my patio sitting in my backyard looking at a stump. This was not a normal stump. This was a giant, Paul Bunyan, Big John stump. I sat down with them and I, too, considered the stump.

“George had to get his chain saw for that sucker,” one of them finally said.

“Took two hours to get it out,” another offered.

“I think it broke George’s saw,” the first chimed in.

“Why didn’t you leave it in the ground,” I asked. “You know, pour the cement over it?”

“We thought about it,” the third admitted, ” but it wouldn’t have been right.”

They told me that they had managed to cut it up into the piece we were looking at but that it had been three times as big and buried deep in the ground, a remnant of a primordial tree. Their task had been Herculean. They told me that if they poured the cement over the stump, the darn thing could rot and my steps would fall in, and I would be upset with them because they poured cement over a stump the size of San Francisco.

“It looks petrified,” I said, thinking petrified wood doesn’t rot. They were the experts, though, so I asked, “How many years do you think it would take to rot?”

The first guy shrugged, “Twenty. Thirty years.”

I shrugged back. I would probably be dead by the time the stump rotted and my stairs fell in. I guess it was the principal of the thing. They would have known the stump was there. It wasn’t honorable to leave it in the ground.

We sat in the hot sun a while longer. Someone suggested carving the stump into the likeness of the contractor. I liked that idea, but no one knew how to carve. I thought we could make it into a table but it was lopsided. Eventually, we all stopped looking at the stump. The men moved it out of the way and started work again; I went inside to make dinner.

That stump has now been in my backyard for two weeks. I can’t bring myself to get rid of it. But, like all things that are hard to get rid of, it eventually served a purpose. The stump gave me a few things to think about:

1) Everybody has a stump. It might be in your real backyard, your professional backyard or your personal backyard, but it is undoubtedly there and it’s just a matter of time before you come upon it.

2) What you do with your stump will tell you a lot about yourself. Either you will dig it up and deal with it, or you will leave it to rot.

3) If you’re stumped and need help there is always someone willing to work hard to get rid of that stump as long as you work as hard as they do.

4) You can never go through a stump but don’t panic. You can go around it, over it and sometimes under it but that takes the longest.

5) Sometimes stumps are not as big as they look and sometimes they are bigger. Size doesn’t matter. Stumped is stumped.

6) Removing a stump but choosing to keep it as a reminder of what stood in your way is a good thing. When you look at it, you will always know that when it came to you against the stump, you won.

 

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This article is copyright ©  Rebecca Forster

THE RIGHT WAY IS YOUR WAY

I once dated a man who took me skiing. I had never been before, but as soon as my skis were on I  headed toward the bunny hill. My boyfriend caught up with me (easily, I might add) and asked:

“Why do you think you can do everything right away?”

I was taken aback by the question because that wasn’t what I was thinking at all.  I was headed off to see how things were done. I wanted to observe and practice away from the crowds. I wanted to fall down without calling too much attention to myself – especially the attention of the man I was dating. He perceived that I arrogantly thought I could just go out and ski. There might have been some truth in that since my intent was to unveil my skills as soon as I had conquered the basics which included standing up on my skis and going at least as far as the little kids scooting down the bunny hill. In short, I wanted to learn alone and then have fun. His idea of fun was trying to teach me how to ski by coaching me. The problem was, we didn’t learn the same way. He learned by having someone tell him what to do; I learned by watching other people do and then attempting to do it myself.

I thought of this ski date because someone asked me, “how do you write a book?”

When I was dared to write a book, I retreated to the quiet of my home and learned by trial and error. I took a book and a bottle of wine and sat in my living room. I was armed with a yellow marker. I sipped a glass of wine as I read the book. I highlighted the important parts: where and how characters appeared, how chapters ended, exciting dialogue passages, expository (though I didn’t know that word then). The wine was soon forgotten (mainly because I am not a big drinker), but the book and it’s lesson lasted long into the evening and beyond.

When I was finished reading and highlighting the text of my ‘learning’ book, I started typing. I mimicked the structure of the novel I had just read. Surprisingly, I must have done it well because that first book sold. Now, after thirty books, I look back and realize that in those early years I was learning how to stand on my ‘literary’ skis. In those early days I was scooting downhill cautiously toward the bottom of the publishing mountain. Every time I took the lift up and started another book, I went down that mountain a little smoother, with a little more confidence and a bit more daring.

It wasn’t until ten years later with ten books under my belt, that I actually found my unique writing voice, my genre, and a definite point of view. That was when I became an author and not just a writer. I also became a teacher. I have taught at UCLA’s Writers Program, conferences and small groups. My teaching always revolves around ‘showing’ how something is done. Sometimes my students get it and run with it and other times I have to refine my lessons to match the way a student learns.

What I have come to realize is that everyone who strikes out on a new venture share certain things: curiosity, desire to learn, and energy. Yet when it comes to learning a new skill, we are all different.  Some of us learn by doing and others through instruction. Some can only tackle a project when there are many voices in a room offering advice and their own ideas while many must have complete silence and spend time in the company of their own imagination.

There is no one correct way to write or tell a story.  There is only one commandment that must be honored and that is to begin. No matter how you put those words on paper, how you are inspired, or how you learn the craft it is the right way for you. Remember, readers will never ask you how you wrote a book they love they will only ask you to write another.

 

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LASHING OUT

I just got back from the grocery store where I bought kale and Peeps. Yes, kale and Peeps, but that is neither here nor there. The point is that I went to the grocery store. It had been a long day, and I couldn’t wait to get home. As I took the bags from the cart and put them in my car, I saw the Maybelline Volum’Express The Rocket Mascara (yep, that’s the name of it) stuck in the little place where kids sit. Any normal person would do one of three things if they saw this. They would: 1) toss the mascara in the bag and go home figuring if the store didn’t catch the mistake it was their bad, 2) go back inside and pay for it 3) pretend they didn’t see it, leave it in the cart, and go home.

I, it seems, am not a normal person. In the blink of an eye, the following went through my head complete with sound and images:

Oh, look. The mascara is stuck in the cart. . .

I didn’t pay for the mascara. . .

I am tired. . .

I don’t want to walk back to the store. . .

No one would know if I didn’t return the unpaid for mascara. . .

I would know. . .

What would happen if I didn’t return it . . .

Someone from the store would come get me. . .

No. No one would come get me. . .

I would go home because the grocery store doesn’t know where I live. . .

Eventually, I would open the mascara and use it. . .

If I did that, the cosmos would make me poke myself in the eye because I didn’t pay for the mascara. . .

If I poked myself in the eye I would probably get an infection . . .

If I got an infection I wouldn’t be able to see my computer. . .

If I couldn’t see my computer I wouldn’t be able to write. . .

If I couldn’t write, well, that would be awful because that’s what I do everyday and I would be unhappy. . .

If I was very unhappy I would be mean to my husband. . .

If I was mean to my husband he would go in the other room and ignore me. . .

If he went in the other room, it wouldn’t matter if I was wearing mascara because he couldn’t see me, and he was ignoring me, and not paying for the mascara in the first place would have gotten me nowhere. . .

Not to mention, I would feel so guilty I wouldn’t sleep a wink.

I walked back to the store and paid for the mascara. When I got home I was too tired to put it on, too upset that I had even thought of not paying for it in the first place, and my husband had to work late so there is no one here to see if my lashes are Rocket long anyway.

It can be exhausting going to the grocery store.

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&. . .

In the back of the house, my office was a jumble of writing stuff, girl stuff, and stuff that I swear elves put in there while I was sleeping. This stuff included: a sewing machine, giant posters of my book covers from the days of bookstore signings, two sweaters my grandmother knitted, reams of paper in rainbow colors left over from my children’s grammar school/craft days (they are now 27 and 30 respectively), office supplies, pictures, the first dollar I ever made writing and, well, stuff.

We remodeled my ‘office’ because a pipe broke in the wall. If you have ever read When You Give a Mouse a Cookie you know what happened once we tore through that one wall. If you have never read When You Give a Mouse a Cookie, do so after you finish reading this.

The room now sports a large screen television and a new couch. My husband suggested that I move my office to a lovely small room in the front of the house (the better for him to nap in front of the television). It has bookshelves, a fireplace and lots of light. I love that room, but it is much smaller than my old office. It is the first room people see when they walk into my home. My new office would have to be neat and tidy at all times, and that meant I couldn’t take all that ‘stuff’ with me. I had to decide what was essential to my professional well-being. Surprisingly, there were only four things and they are also essential to the well-being of my heart and mind. They are. . .

1) The $200 dollar/$.25 plastic horse. I’m a sucker for carnival games. Years ago when I was in Las Vegas I stopped to play a carnival game in the casino of Circus Circus. To get a prize, all I had to do was bowl a ball into a big hole cut in to a ramp. $200 dollars later, I finally got a ball in a hole. The wrong hole, but a hole nonetheless. My prize was not a free weekend in the hotel, but a plastic horse that probably cost all of $.25 to manufacture. I keep this horse where I can see it to remind myself that nothing comes easy, everything has a price, and that hard work and luck are both part of the success formula. I also keep it to remind myself to keep my wallet in my purse when I go to Vegas.

2) My tiara. Early in my writing career – after leaving a well-paying corporate job – I was feeling quite low. The decision seemed to be ill-advised, I had two toddlers at home, and there were bills to pay. One day this tiara arrived in the mail. A friend sent it to me as a sign of her faith that I would one day be a publishing queen. Thirty years later, I’m not even sure I’m at the royal court. Still when I feel unsure of myself, I look at that tiara and it reminds me that there are people who believe in me. The least I can do is believe in myself.

 

3) My inspirational rock. I’m not really much for inspirational sayings, but when I saw this rock I had to have it. There it was, set in stone: a typo. I keep this rock on my desk as a reminder to always do my best work and be my best self.  When mistakes are made, this rock reminds me that I can set them right. There really are few things that are set in stone.

4) My ampersand pillow: When I panic because I don’t think I can write another word, figure out a plot point, or come up with a solution to the mystery, I look at my ampersand for inspiration. I sit back and it says to me:  “& then what happened?”  & then I fill in the blank. When I talk on the phone that ampersand reminds me to ask the person on the other end of the line, “& how are you?” When the weekend comes, the ampersand on this pillow reminds me that there is plenty of time to rest, so I ask my family “& what should we do now?”

&, so, it is your turn. What are the four things in your office that keep you productive & purposeful & playful? Take a look around & you may be surprised at what you find.

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Stephen Hawking, The New Year, & Me

A few months ago I had a glass of wine with a new acquaintance, a young woman in the book business.

“What do you read for fun?” I asked her.

“I liked a Brief History of Time. You know, Stephen Hawking’s book?” she said, smiling broadly and obviously eager for a discussion of the book.

“Gee. Physics. Hmmm,” I answered. “I actually haven’t read it.”

What followed was a spirited explanation of loopy time, a promise that we each see the movie The Theory of Everything and a story about my own brush with the great Stephen Hawking.

A few years back I joined a critique group. I was particularly drawn to this group because a) there were men and women b) all of them wrote in different genres c) all of them were incredibly accomplished in their day-job fields and d) all of them thought critique sessions should be accompanied by enchiladas and margaritas.

A few months later, another gentleman joined. His name was Len and he was silver-haired handsome and wore a really cool black leather jacket. He was lively and fun and he handed out his pages with this explanation:

“I’m co-writing a book with Stephen Hawking.”

He grinned. I accepted the pages and grinned back. That grin was frozen on my face, to keep me from lapsing into the deer-in-the-headlights look of panic. I wanted to shake him by his very beautifully tailored leather lapels and scream:

“Are you nuts? What could I possibly have to say about a book co-written by Stephen Hawking?”

Instead, I went home and read the first three pages. I then re-read those pages. Finally, I had to admit that I didn’t have a clue what I was reading even though it appeared to be beautifully written.

I returned to the critique group and found that pretty much all of us had the same critique:

“Two thumbs up, Len.”

“Great work.”

“Wouldn’t change a thing.”

Who were we kidding? We were all out of our depth. I still remember that evening fondly because it was funny and awesome and humbling all at the same time.

I am no longer in that critique group, but I am so grateful that I was invited, that I accepted the invitation, that I went and was in the company of so many fine people. Had I excused myself because I didn’t have time I would never have met Len, been separated from Stephen Hawking by only one degree, had something to talk about when a new friend brought up A Brief History of Time or gone to see a movie about a physicist.

Now it is the New Year and time for resolutions. I have only one and that is to resolve not to make any. Resolutions entail planning and promising and disappointment if I don’t do both exceptionally well. Instead, I will resolve to wake up in the morning and keep my eyes and ears open. I will enjoy every experience that comes my way. If I’m going right and I see something interesting on the left, I will veer off my path. I can always find my way back again, but whatever caught my eye in that instant may never come again. I’ll be flexible and open to experiences, people, and places. That  will make my brief time here on this earth a marvelous, curious and joyful experience.

Thanks, Mr. Hawking. I may not have read your books, I may not understand about the loopiness of time, but because of you my universe expanded. That universe now includes a moment with Len, an evening with a new friend, and a date night with my husband. That, I believe, is a great use of time.

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What I Want (and Got) for Christmas

My house is decorated. Cookies are baked. I am joyful until my husband says:

“What do you want for Christmas?”

“I don’t need anything.” I answer.

“But what do you want?” He pressed me. He insisted on an answer.

Okay. Here it is. What I really want is to be surprised or delighted. I want to be  inspired!

“You know, honey, just do that.”

He’s done it before and I have all the confidence in the world he can do it again. Here are some of my favorite ‘surprising, delightful, inspired gifts’.

1977.  Like all newlyweds we were strapped for cash but there was a big box with a gold bow under the Christmas tree for me. Inside was a pair of beautiful, light blue and

white pajamas. I was thrilled until I took them out of the box. Something seemed a bit odd. I looked closer.

“Why,” I asked my husband, “are there ice cube pictures printed on these pajamas? Are you trying to tell me something?”

Startled, he looked at them more closely and said, “I thought they were clouds.”

I loved those ice cube pajamas.

1992.

That year I unwrapped boxes of make-up, trays of make-up, make-up in colors that defied description. There was nothing under the tree for me except make-up. In my

stocking there were make-up samples.

“Wow,” I said.

He beamed as if he had just won the lottery. I had to ask:

“Don’t you like the way I look?”

“Sure he does,” my young son son piped up. “But dad made friends with the really pretty girls at Macy’s and they told him you would like all this stuff.”

Now that we know he is vulnerable to pretty girls wielding perfume samples my husband does not venture into the cosmetics department  alone  anymore

2001.

I raised an eyebrow and I held up my gift. A negligee. Size XXL. My husband’s eyes got big when he realized his mistake.

“I thought it was pretty. It was on sale.”

Unable to return the gown, it sits in a drawer and makes me smile each time I see it. My husband has no idea what size I wear, but he thought of me because I’m a

big fan of pretty and bargains.  How much sweeter could he be?

Now when he asks what I want for Christmas I just smile. Chances are I will get exactly what I want. It doesn’t matter what the gift is because it will be a wrapped up with

all the love in the world.  May your Christmas be filled wonderful, delightful, love inspired surprises.*

*To be fair, I have been guilty of a few gift faux pas myself – like presenting my husband with a beautifully wrapped trashcan. In my defense, he had been complaining

about our old one forever. He returned it and is now very careful what he complains about around the holidays.

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Dear Santa: A letter about letters

The other day I was cleaning out my office. Well, it isn’t so much an office as it is a ‘girl room’ in a house full of men. There is a desk, a sewing machine, the ironing board, wind-up toys, snapshots of people I love hanging from the shutters and cluttering every available countertop. There used to be an apricot colored sofa in that room, but it broke. I was very proud of that sofa because it was the only thing that wasn’t ‘boy beige’ in my whole house.

I digress.

I was cleaning out my office and came upon a box of letters. There were probably a hundred or so and soon I was surrounded by paper: pretty stationery, notebook pages and postcards. My oldest son arrived and lounged in the doorway since there was no more apricot colored sofa to sit on.

“What are those?” he asked

“Letters from people who read my books.”

“On paper?”

“Yes. There was no internet or email when I started writing.”

“Cool.”

“Yes. It was,” I said and then put them back in the box and handed to him to take outside to the trash.

“You’re going to throw them away?”

“I haven’t looked at them in years,” I answered.

“You have no soul,” he said.

“But I need the space,” I answered. “They are gathering dust. They are yellowing.”

“Those letters took a lot of effort. No one will ever write you a real letter again,” he answered. His eyes narrowed a little. His jaw set in indignation. “Ever.”

He handed the box back to me and left me sitting on the floor. I felt my heart shrivel to a small, hard, black thing. I was callous. I was ungrateful. I was the Grinch to my son’s Who, I was Scrooge to my son’s cheery Ghost of Christmas Past. He was Santa and I was deserving of coal. But, dear Santa, that’s not what my son gave me. He gave me the gift of sentiment not practicality. He gave me the gift of memory and took me back the time when I was a young writer and that first fan wrote a letter to me about my book. That lady is still my pen pal 29 years later.

All the letters are neatly stacked back in their box and put on a shelf where I can easily reach them. I have read every one and I can’t tell you, Santa, how much I appreciate that there were people in my life who sat down with a piece of paper, wrote me a letter, told me about themselves and how my books touched them in some way. I appreciate that they wrote my address on an envelope and had to use a stamp. I answered each and every one of them all those years ago in the same way I answer every email I receive today. I hadn’t really forgotten to be grateful, I had just forgotten to read between the lines and understand that there was more in that box than just paper.

So, dear Santa, I am writing to you to tell you there is nothing more I could possibly want for Christmas. I have my box of letters and a son who is not a Grinch or a Scrooge. He is a man with a heart that is big and wise and wonderful. I hope everyone is blessed this season to have loved ones near and maybe a letter in their mailbox.

Merry Christmas!

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Albanian Diaries #6: My Shqip* (ship) has sailed

I woke up this morning at 4:30 am. and slipped quietly out of bed so I wouldn’t wake my husband. I’ve been doing this for this last thirty-seven days so that I could go to the window of our small apartment to watch the day come to Tirana, Albania.

But this morning I didn’t see the dark apartments in the highrises a stone’s throw from mine. I didn’t see yesterday’s wash hanging from balconies or laid out on drying racks on terraces waiting for the lady of the house to collect her families clothes. I didn’t see the headlights of the dawn-drivers in cars careening around the traffic circle on King Zog II Avenue or the silhouette of the massive statue of Skanderbeg that takes my breath away. I did not see the mists and clouds over the stone mountains. I did not see the sky turning 50 shades of Albanian grey as the minutes past. I did not open the window to feel the cool breeze that would give way to a hot day. I did not smell the scent of baking bread from the little shop downstairs where the baker had been working since 2 in the morning.

I saw and felt and smelled none of this because, this morning, I am home.

Twenty-two hours in transit brought me back to Palos Verdes and a house that now seems palatial given where I have been living. I hear an owl. And silence. My family is sleeping. My town is sleeping. I look out my glass doors and see a fenced in yard, not a wonderful, imperfect, lively, marvelous city lying at my feet, and I am sad. I will miss so much about Albania.

I will miss:

-Emi and her pastries and her laugh. Evisa and Nada, law professors who are both brilliant and beautiful. The Byrek man and the baker and the women at the market who sell yellow butter fresh from the churn and tomatoes the size of baseballs.

-The hard sidewalks full of potholes and loose stones and broken concrete. It was as if each day I was being challenged to remember how to safely walk the road of my life while enjoying the adventure. I managed rather well. I may have tripped but I never fell.

-The crazy traffic, the people who drive as if the city is one big bumper car track.

-The bronze statues. Massive discarded statues of Lenin and Stalin kept to remember a time when Albania was not free. Even bigger statues that speak to the amazing strength and honor of the Albanian people – Skanderbeg, Rosafa, Prishtina. Smaller but no less important the statues reflecting their friendship with America – Wilson and Clinton and Bush.

-The food. The food. The food. I have never had such food in all my travels.

-The hospitality.

-The conversations with everyone that inevitably turned to discussions of how Albania can come into the modern world after 5 decades of brutal communist rule. Each citizen no matter what their station was concerned for their country and engaged in its political life.

-Friends Book Store. There has never been a business so aptly named. When I left, I thanked Lati , the owner who loves books and authors, his wife Eda, the young men who served me my tea in the Library Room or my sandwich on the coffee patio. I wish I had been able to thank them each a thousand more times. I’ll send them some of my books and a little part of me will always be in the library of Friends Book Store. But I should have found a way to go back. Just once more. To say thank you.

-The stray dogs. Especially ‘Benji’.

I will miss all that and more. To be fair, though, there are some things I won’t miss. But I’ll get back to you on that.

Faleminderit, Albania. Faleminderit, my friends.

*Shqip is the language of Albania. I learned ten words well while I was there. I managled many more. Albanians call their country Shqiperia and themselves Shqiptare.

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Albanian Diaries #5: Traveling Companions

I may have been sitting beside my husband on the 22 hours we were in transit to Albania but he is only one of the people I traveled with. I brought along a number of friends in the form of books. I never travel without a full Kindle. Yet, it wasn’t until I was standing in the small street outside my apartment at three in the morning, a cool mist swirling at the end of  the dark street, and a big, black car waiting to take me to the airport, that I realized I had come on this journey with more people than I knew. Those friends are authors who, like me, ply our craft alone in rooms, in a digital world but who are fascinated, intrigued and inspired by the real one.

So that morning, looking at that car and the waiting driver, I thought of Brian Drake author of the marvelous Steve Dane novels that are reminiscent of Ian Flemings work. I could almost hear Brian writing the dialogue for that moment:

“Don’t get in the car. You’ll never get out again.”

Me, picking up my bag, adjusting my fictional fur coat, and answering as Dane’s girlfriend, Nina, might:

“Don’t be ridiculous. I can take care of myself.”

“Pity,” Dane would say.

“Why?” Nina would ask.

“Because It’s more fun if I help.”

I love Steve Dane. I love that Brian Drake could make a whole book out of standing in a dark street in Tirana.

I did get in the car and the only thing that happened was that I made it to the airport in time to catch a flight to Rome for the weekend. (I know, how cool is it to be able to say that?) The Piazza Navona, one of my favorite places, was one of the first places I stopped. It was a bright sunny day and the piazza was busy: a woman played her acoustical violin, artists showed their wares, tourists sat for pictures on the beautiful, ancient fountains, restaurants lined each side of the huge square. People ate and drank and talked to one another. Children ran across the cobblestones and the blue-suited police wandered in front of me with their hands clasped behind their back. Now it was Rick Bard, action and adventure author, standing beside me, telling me that the next book in the Brainrush Series was going to be set right there. “Perfect place for a chase, don’t you think?” I would say, of course. In his hands the chase would be exciting and elegant and oh-so-much-fun in the Piazza Navona.

In Dubrovnik, I walked through the fabulous walled city and just before I went through the gate I heard the sound of two dogs snapping and growling. I turned in time to see two handsome young men restraining their big hounds. In that millisecond they were crouched in fighting position and frozen. A beautiful young woman with a little white dog walked between them in her tight jeans, her oversized sweater, and her long hair  pinned atop her head. She and her dog seemed uninterested in the two man and their pets. But if my romance writer friends had been there, everything would have changed. The woman would have chanced a glance. One or both of the men would have followed her. Something romantically magical would have happened. Mindy Neff, Sandra Paul, Angie Ray - what they could have done with that scene! I had the strange feeling that if I turned around they would be there, plotting the happy ending just before inviting me to lunch.

There are a hundred more authors who have come with me on this. The quirky and fascinating Conrad Johnson whose work Clean Kill is so reminiscent of John Fowles. He would love the broken down buildings, the legless man playing dance tunes, the blind man selling books by the river. Richard Bunning who pulls you into another dimension of time and space would be fascinated by the coffee shops where people speak in all he languages of the world. For me, the inspiration is Albania with its ancient laws and contemporary politics and energy and anxiety. It is the perfect place for Josie to confront her sense of justice and Hannah to paint and Archer to watch their backs.

Sometimes new authors say that they are afraid to talk about their ideas because someone might steal them. I say, those who write have no need to steal anything. A hundred different authors could stand in the Piazza Navona or on a deserted Tirana street at 3a.m., or in the walled city of Dubrovnik and the result would be a hundred different stories. That is the magic.  Authors will write, readers will read, and the traveler – at least this traveler –  will never be alone.

 

 

 

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Albanian Diaries #4: Going Down the Toilet

Unlike Where in the World is Waldo, if I am lost when we travel my family doesn’t have to look far to find me. I will be locked in a bathroom. In my defense, we have been to some rather exotic places starting in 1982 when I was sent to China on business and had my first encounter with a Turkish toilet – more commonly known as a hole in the ground. I understand that there are western facilities even at the Great Wall now, but back then I learned quickly that wearing a skirt made the call of nature a whole lot easier to handle when faced with a Turkish toilet.

I’ve been a lot of places since that first trip to China. The world has changed but not the fascinating world of bathrooms. Here in Albania, I was actually prepared to encounter Turkish toilets once more. We were in the north three years ago and our son’s apartment was equipped with an extraordinarily efficient bathroom. The showerhead was above the hole in the ground and there were no doors to lock.  But we are in Tirana now, a bustling and cosmopolitan city. Still, Turkish toilets are to be found as my husband informed me after his first day at work. More common, though are western toilets without seats, shared facilities, and door locks that are as unique as they are inventive.

I have to say, though, the bathrooms here are, for the most part, clean and lovely. It is just odd to walk through a door and find that the men’s and women’s toilets share the same space. No one thinks a thing of it, so I pretend I don’t either. Which is a lie but I think I pull it off rather well. I also think that my skills as a mystery writer have been sharpened given the challenges of figuring out how to deal with what lies behind the door marked toilet. After years of sleuthing, I have finally discovered sure fire ways to master the toilet issue on my travels.

– Light: Immediately determine where the switch is – if there is one. Do not give up. Often logic doesn’t dictate the placement.  It could be inside the stall, outside, on the outside wall of   the restaurant or even the building not exist (look to see if there is a bulb or fixture). Exhaust all possibilities before locking yourself in a small dark room in a country where you don’t speak the language.

– Windows: If there is a window quickly assess the height of it and its proximity to any structures, outdoor markets or pedestrian traffic. Look up; someone may be looking down. Pay close attention as to whether it is opaque. Stopping at a gas station on the road from Dubrovnik I noted the facility’s door was made of glass – see-through glass.  We drove on.

-Toilet paper: Never go anywhere without Kleenex or napkins. Period.

-Toilette seats: do not expect one.

-Sinks: Plentiful. In good hotels and restaurants there are sinks in the toilet room and more sinks outside. Sinks everywhere. My favorite sink was in a lean-to in Rome. You worked the water with foot peddles like an old time sewing machine. Red for hot; blue for cold. Totally fun.*

-Company: Compose yourself before opening the door. Men, women, kids – you never know who is going to come out of the stall next to you.

– Technology: Be prepared for anything because technology has come to toilets. In Germany I actually paid three times to go back into a restroom just so I could flush and watch the seat rise and rotate under a stream of water and then be blown dry. It was fascinating and, I imagine, dangerous, if you flushed too soon.

-Locks: Door locks are as creative as the actual toilets. I have been flummoxed by keys that work to get you in but not when you want out, hidden buttons (I missed a wonderful flambé in Italy because I was looking for a hidden button on the door handle), sticks on strings, the age-old doorstop, a family member (yours, restaurant owner’s or anyone passing by) guarding the entrance, etc.

Important and final reminder for travelers:

– Before you leave a dinner table, look your traveling companion in the eye and say, “I am going to the bathroom. If I’m not out in ten, come get me.” If said companion has a bottle of wine in front of him/her, repeat as necessary.If you think he/she still might not remember, take the bottle of wine with you. You may need it if you’re evening literally goes down the toilet.**

*This little place was on a square in the shadow of St. Peter’s. I had so much fun working those foot peddles I dropped the key, had to root around to get it and finally, wet and feeling none too clean, tried to leave. The key stuck. Had to be rescued.

**2012. First trip to Albania. Locked in toilet for fifteen minutes while my husband and two sons finished their bottle of wine and ordered another. Had to be rescued.

 

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This article is copyright ©  Rebecca Forster