There’s something you need to know about me before I tell this story: when I’m not writing travel tales for Vancouver Queer Stories, I moonlight as an Anglican priest. No, seriously, I’m ordained, and it’s taken me to some incredible places. I want to assure you that I’m not here to preach a sermon: I’m here to tell you about the time I travelled to the Northern Philippines, and, on the first day, promptly and irreparably broke the toilet.
I awoke on that fateful day to the sound of rush-hour traffic. I had slept well after a 12-hr bus ride, which involved 40 degree heat, views of the renowned rice terraces (a UNESCO World Heritage Site), and roads which were under construction following a recent earthquake. As I was getting ready for the day, I finished showering, did my business, and prepared to flush the toilet, manually.
I had done my research, you see. I was well aware of the adjustments we’d have to make while in the Philippines. I knew how to deal with foreign plumbing—bucket style. I filled up a nearby trash can with water from the sink. I tossed it with great force into the toilet like I’d been shown—on YouTube.
When I was unsuccessful, I rolled up my sleeves and thought to myself, “I know how to fix this.”
I took hold of the porcelain lid and removed it from the tank. I felt the thin layer of condensation that had settled on its surface. It felt slippery between my fingers, like, well, like you would expect a porcelain toilet lid to feel.
As my palms reached for the edges, my fingers spread easily over the lip, and just when I thought I had hold of it, like an angel dressed in white taking flight, or a white-robed resurrected Jesus bursting forth from the tomb, the toilet lid shot into the air—set free from my grip. It landed on the floor—smashed into a thousand pieces. I followed suit shortly thereafter.
So, I did what any self-respecting person would do in a situation like this. I picked up the pieces, one by one, and hid them in my suitcase, in a bag that I would later dispose of when no one was looking. But, there was still a terrible mess and after labouring on the bathroom floor for hours (let’s be real, it was five minutes), I admitted defeat and made my way down to the lobby to plead my case with the hotel manager.
As I left my room, though, there was my colleague: the Executive Archdeacon, the Venerable Father Arnold Graystone. He was seated on the balcony, hands clasped, eyes closed, deep in prayer. I tip-toed my way towards the stairs.
“Good morning, Mother,” he said.
“Good morning, Father,” I chimed.
“Everything alright with the room?”
The story came tumbling forth, my words as hurried and fragmented as my attempts to clean up the porcelain pieces from the bathroom floor.
“Well, you’d better go down and have a word with the manager, haven’t you?” he said.
(Yes, I’d better go down and have a word with the manager, haven’t I?)
I made my way to the main floor and greeted the manager.
“I have some very bad news,” I said.
I pulled up a photo on my phone. She nodded and gestured to one of her sons. I began to apologize profusely. I insisted on paying for the damage. I asked if I could take a mop and clean it up myself. She smiled and pointed to a stack of porcelain lids in the back room.
“We have extras,” she said, “because of tourists, like you.”
I thanked the manager, and turned to make my way upstairs.
“One more thing,” she said.
“Next time, ma’am, just press the button. The toilets are automatic.”
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