Memories of Toilets and Tantrums

Next to each toilet in every place we stayed in Germany and Austria, and in every public restroom as well, there’s a toilet brush. There’s an unwritten (Although our apartment in Vienna actually had a cartoon on the wall clarifying the expectation that people use the toilet brush.) expectation that people will clean up after themselves.

I love that.

Clean up after yourself.

On flights, there’s often a sign in the lavatory that says, “As a courtesy to the next passenger, may we suggest that you use your towel to wipe off the water basin. Thank you.”

I like that, too.

Clean up after yourself.

I was also pondering the two times I got fussed at on this trip. Once was by a white female bus driver. She was very frustrated with me, and told me so in long German phrases.

I know there was another incident, but I can’t remember what it was.

Do you know why I can’t remember what it was? Because getting fussed at in a language you don’t understand isn’t a deal.

I’m standing there with a daft look on my face, watching the other person’s eyes, fascinated by how their emotions play across their face. Their words can’t hurt me. (Because I cannot understand them.)

The other great aspect is that their anger is quickly spent because they realize two things:

1) I’m not going to fuss back.

2) I’ve come to this battle of verbal wits unarmed.

That’s disarming to most folks.