Port-O-Hell

What a lovely, lovely weekend! One last hurrah before the official end of summer. And boy oh boy was there a lot of hip-hip-hurraying.

The annual German-American Friendship Day (ridiculous, I know), was last Saturday in Central Park. It took some bullying, some sneaking through gates, some getting screamed at by security, but once we were in it was all German all the time.

Steins of beers, lederhosens, bratwursts, and crazy Deutschland bands abounded. Me and my lovely lassie posse enjoyed personal pitchers-o-beer and potato pancakes.
Oh yeah. We “Zicke, zacke, zicke, zacke, hoi, hoi, hoi-ed!” all afternoon.
Let’s just say that I’m glad Germans and Americans have been reunited. It feels soooo gooood.
However. All that cheers-ing came to a screeching halt when nature came a calling.

Port-O-Potties are undoubtedly the most horrific experience known to peeing-kind. Seriously. They’re deeeesgusting. But these particular POPs were the most revolting, the most sickening, the most odious Ports I’ve ever encountered.

First, there was the ratio of boys POPs to girls POPs. There were four - FOUR - dedicated to men. And only three to women. With one handicapped. “Is this real life?” I asked myself over and over.

People, peeeeople. Don’t you understand that women pee more than men? That we take longer? That it’s a much more complicated task for us than for you?

To lighten the mood, take my mind off my bladder, I engaged in some banter with the other ladies-in-waiting. “Can you BELIEVE there’s more boys rooms than girls? They are such dummies!” But the women simply laughed and flew off on German-speaking tangents.

(It’s funny that we Americans believe the octave of our voice has a direct correlation with language comprehension. I repeated myself a few times before giving up, each repetition louder than the last.)

Then I gave up and stared blankly, shrugging, as they “Ich bin-ed” and “Hamburg! Hamburg-ed!” all over my ears. I smiled politely and eye-averted.

Yup, I was forced to wait it out sans entertainment. And then, joy of all joys, it was my turn. At last.

I seriously don’t know what I was expecting. I know Port-O-Potties are nasty-ass cesspools. But this was atrocity personified. (Of course this pic is not the one I experienced...I don’t want my handful-o-readers gagging, now!)

Never have I ever experienced such a fetid, foul, FULL Porto. It was topped off.
And the smell - ugh. A positively toxic mix of waste and reeking blue solution. Can we say N-A-S-T-A-A-A-Y?

What irked me most, though, was not the smell.

Well - fine. The stink is always the worst part about the Port. But in a veryvery close second was the fact that THERE WAS NO TOILET PAPER.

Whhhhhhy, whhhhhhhhhhhhhy?????

And of course no potable water and soap to wash my hands with.

Omg.

Unfortunately, though, my options going forward are quite limited. Cause when it comes down to it, I'm not gonna give up enjoying me some brewsky’s . I guess I’ll just have to enjoy a few more so that the Port-O-Potty usage isn’t so disturbing.

I’ll also have to re-watch Slumdog Millionaire. Nothing – nothing – could be worse than what the youngest Jamal experienced. Traumatizing. Simply traumatizing.