There are certain universal rules in life.
Or so I thought.
If there is a queue for the toilet, you join it.
If the indicator is green, the cubicle should be empty.
If the door is closed, the person inside has probably locked it.
Unfortunately, years of travelling have taught me that none of these things can be trusted.
It Started With a Precautionary Wee
Before we get to the queue jumper, I should probably admit that my relationship with toilets while travelling got off to a fairly traumatic start.
It was my first trip to China.
We were only a couple of days in, and I did not even really need to go.
It was just a precautionary wee.
You know the kind.
“I don’t need to go now, but who knows when I’ll see another toilet?”
Famous last words.
We were on a group tour, and I was with my friend’s mum when we found a bathroom.
I had no idea what to expect.
So, in typical me fashion, I opened the door.
And there they were.
Not one.
Not two.
Possibly three women or more.
All squatting.
All mid-flow.
No cubicle doors.
And now we were making eye contact.
They were looking at me.
I was looking at them.
Everyone was being heartbreakingly polite about it.
I shut that door so fast.
Nope.
Could not do it.
“I can’t go,” I told my friend’s mum.
Because apparently, I have toilet stage fright.
She, on the other hand, bravely marched back in.
There was a single Western-style sitting toilet in the corner.
Still very much open plan.
She went anyway.
I have never respected someone more.
That was my initiation into the world of international toilets.
You would think I would have become desensitised.
I have not.
The Queue Jumper
Fast forward to another trip.
Somewhere in Asia.
It could have been Vietnam.
It does not really matter.
What matters is that I needed to pee.
And there was a line.
So, being the patient Aussie that I am, I waited.
Then this woman walked straight past us.
Right to the front.
I did the confused look-around thing.
The universal expression that says:
“Does nobody else see this?”
Everybody saw it.
Nobody moved.
Then something in me snapped.
“Excuse me, I’m waiting!”
Back she went.
Order restored.
I entered the bathroom feeling quietly victorious.
Justice had been served.
The queue system was safe for another day.
Darren Versus the Red and Green Dots
I came out to find Darren looking like he had just survived a minor battle.
Darren is colour-blind.
You would not think this would create many bathroom-related difficulties until you are faced with a row of toilet doors displaying nothing but red and green dots.
No words.
No “vacant” or “occupied.”
Just colours.
To me, green means go.
To Darren, it means:
“Guess the door.”
His system now is to gently push each door.
Or, even better, walk along and look underneath for feet.
Not elegant.
But effective.
My Own Special Toilet Talent
Meanwhile, I have my own special toilet talent.
I walk in on people.
All.
The.
Time.
I used to trust the little green indicator.
I believed in it.
I respected its authority.
But after too many door clicks followed by frantic cries of, “Sorry! Sorry!” I do not trust it anymore.
Green is toilet propaganda.
If the door is closed, I knock.
Every time.
I do not care what colour the little circle is.
I no longer believe its lies.
Our International Bathroom System
Travelling with us now involves:
Me policing the queues.
Darren checking underneath doors for feet.
Neither of us trusting the little red and green dots.
It is a highly sophisticated system developed through years of international experience, accidental exposure and mild trauma.
Maybe the moral is that what is completely obvious to one person might be invisible to somebody else.
Maybe it is a lesson in accessibility, assumptions and why good design should never rely on colour alone.
But mostly:
Please lock the door properly.
Because there is a very, very good chance I am about to walk in.
Go easy. Grow steady.
