Upon graduation from college, a relative surprised me with the gift of an all-expenses-paid luxury vacation to Europe: three weeks on an escorted tour during which I would get to sample five-star restaurants and hotels and see some of the most amazing sites in those parts of Europe. Travcoa, the tour operator, prides itself on providing luxury, so the clientele tend to be wealthy and a bit stodgy. Most of my fellow travelers had extensive travel backgrounds. I tried to fit in by being funny.
As a precaution against any potential sicknesses, it was recommended that if we were outside a big city it would be best to consume bottled water or beer rather than the tap water. Most of these people would tell stories of Delhi belly or other similar maladies that had struck them on previous tours, but I thought all this talk of watching what you ate or drank was a bit overcautious -- this was Europe, not Calcutta.
Being the youngest person in the group of twelve mostly-retired tourists, my fellow travelers would often encourage me to be the first to try a regional delicacy. Most of the items were fairly normal, but there were a few I wish I didn't bother with -- namely raw kippers at seven AM in a coastal Dutch fishing village, and a particularly nasty cheese that could only have come from a long-dead sun-baked cattle carcass's bloated udders; but I got through them none the worse for wear.
In Barcelona we stayed at The Ritz Palace Hotel, just off the main thoroughfare called the Ramblas. It was an older hotel, full of stuffed shirts and gleaming fixtures -- a truly luxurious setting. We'd been advised that should we require any laundering or need our shoes shined just to put our garments on a hanger on the outside of our door and they would be returned cleaned and pressed or shined by the morning. The floor our group was staying on had some fairly senior Reagan appointee also staying there, so there were two security men at the top of the stairs leading to my suite. Each time I approached my room, they asked to see my hotel pass.
On our first evening in Barcelona we visited a famous seafood restaurant just steps from the famed fish market. A seafood paella was the specialty of the house and it was truly magnificent, with lobster, prawns, mussels, hake, squid and who knows what other types of aquatic denizens. I absolutely gorged myself, enjoying many glasses of white wine, beer, and an after-dinner liqueur. The majority of my fellow travelers were arranging cabs to take them back to the hotel, but I decided I'd walk it, and take a detour through the Gothic Quarter to marvel at the Gaudi buildings. All was well. It was a beautifully warm night... but it felt like it was getting hotter and hotter the longer I walked.
Before too long, I started getting mild cramps. I knew this was not a good sign. I had changed to the most direct route possible to bring me back to the Ramblas when the rumble began. At first it was just mild and I continued making good progress back to the hotel, but then it got really nasty and I'd have to stop and lean forward. Visions of mussels opening and closing like mouths laughing at me played through my brain. It felt like a I had a squid up my ass and his tentacles were reaching towards my anus, ready to part it and shoot an inky stream to propel him and his aquatic friends free. I stopped and squeezed, took a few more steps, and stopped and squeezed again. The tentacles were getting stronger and stronger each time. I must have looked like a wind-up soldier the way I was moving, but I was not going to shit myself if I could prevent it.
I got to the hotel and made my way up the stairs, stopping and squeezing every few steps. By the time I reached my floor the security detail was giving me a good look over. I waved my pass card hurriedly and duck-walked to my suite. I got the door open and took two steps. I was only about eight more steps from salvation when my own Pooseidon Adventure occurred. A small squirt of liquid expunged from my now-distended bunghole: the squid and his friends had won.
It was not as bad as I'd feared -- I was able to close the breech before too much escaped. I finally made it to the toilet and released a torrent of froth into the bowl. The staccato bursts sounded like castanets made from empty mussel shells and lobster claws, the squirts clattering into the void with the rhythm of a Flamenco dancer on speed. My underwear had a palm-sized shart stain courtesy of the liquefied crap I unleashed; fortunately, though, my pants had been spared by my quick recovery. I tried to rinse the mark out but decided just to toss them in the garbage pail instead. I made good use of the bidet for cleaning up.
The next day we left very early for Montserrat to see the famed Black Madonna and a few other sites. It sucked, but I was feeling fine and that's what mattered most. When we arrived back at the hotel I went to the bar and had a few drinks before going up and changing for dinner; by the time I was done, everyone else had already gone to their suites to rest and prepare for dinner. I passed a few of my fellow travelers on my way up and they gave me these incredibly funny smiles.
Once again the security men asked to see my pass. This time, though, they both had broad smiles, which was uncharacteristic. I looked over at the door to my suite and there was my underwear proudly displayed for all to see, hung from a hanger in a clear plastic bag. Upon close inspection, the stain was still slightly visible.
I was mortified. All my fellow travelers had seen my underwear and could only be left to surmise there had been a problem. And what sort of evil chambermaid could have pulled such a dirty trick?
The next day, on another interminable bus ride to Figueres to see the Dali museum, everyone was cranky. I'd had a few glasses of wine in a quaint village we had stopped in to provide a bathroom break and mini-excursion, so I was feeling a little giddy. I was seated at the back of the bus and yelled out, "Are we there yet?" in my best kiddy voice. Everyone had a good laugh, and our guide said, "No, about another half-hour." I said, "I think I'm gonna poop my pants... again."
There was a pause, and then entire bus erupted into raucous laughter. From that moment on, whenever we'd been on the bus for more than an hour someone would yell out, "Are we there yet?" and I'd chime back, "I think I'm gonna poop my pants again," and everyone would laugh.
What really struck me as curious is that after this, everyone became much more open about their travel stories. People would complain about squat toilets in Egypt, the awful quality of toilet paper in Russia, the lack of privacy they suffered when on a safari, and how none of that wouldn't prevent them from going back and doing it all over again.
Though it was a happy ending, let me close with this: if I ever get the chance to go back to Barcelona, I'm going to get the paella again -- and that fucking squid and his friends are going to pay!
