I had to play a joke on the maid at a hotel where I was staying. You
know that little paper wrapper they place over the toilet seat, that
thin paper band that is supposed to convince you that the facility is
clean. You normally take the paper band off and throw it away when you
go to use the john. Instead, I saved mine and each morning before
leaving the room slipped it back on the toilet seat, giving the
impression I never used it.

After day five of this I could only imagine the maid’s reaction.

Staring, she said, “What are you, some kind of a lizard?”

To me, bathrooms are like Greek temples, made of stone and cool
marble, reassuring, serene, little worlds of their own, a place of
refuge, shut away from the world and its problems.

Such places thus earn the more dignified name of “rest room.”

For example, if you hate your dead-end job, and you share a communal
bathroom down the hall with the employees of other companies in the
building, chances are you’ll spend more time here than you should,
away from a threatening, dishonest boss, ringing

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