Pardon Me, But Where Do I Piss?

aseos plu. n. 1 toilets: donde estan los aseos? Synonyms: el bano, el W.C., los servicios

When Ruyman and I were first married, he was astounded by my inability to pee outside. I could handle a Sani-Can as well as any other olfactoried American, but when it came to bare-butted squatting in the great outdoors, I was at a loss. I don’t know if it was a question of aim or balance, but I usually ended up falling into something pointy or poisonous. Though my skills are still lacking, I better understand why Ruyman expected me to be able to write my name in the snow, so to speak.

People here are champion urinators. Drunk or sober, rain or shine, hot or cold, the Spanish really know how to cop a squat. The other night, Ruyman and I were having a serious conversation near a pier, only to have it drowned out by a man happily emptying his bladder off the boardwalk. I’ve seen little boys pee in sandpits and old men pass water on palm trees. If you’re really lucky, you can see both a man and his dog doing their business at the exact same time.

All-terrain urination is typically the special prerogative of the male of our species, but there’s no gender bias in the Canaries. I often see my young sister-in-law tugging at Ruyman’s sleeve and whispering what roughly translates to “Where do I piss?” 

My first days here, I spent considerable effort finding places for her to contribute to the water cycle. After more exposure to the culture, I realized it didn’t matter. What clinched it for me was Ruyman’s comment that his great grandmother hasn’t worn underwear in years to better streamline the peeing process.

As an American of more than usual modesty, I balk at the idea of peeing in the wild, especially when the wild is a concrete jungle of 250,000 souls. Unfortunately, culture and circumstance work against me in my efforts to stay toilet-bound. First of all, there aren’t a lot of public restrooms here. Second, the few bathrooms that do exist tend to lack something vital. If you’re lucky, it’s a nicety like soap or toilet paper. If you’re unlucky, it’s the toilet seat. The latter has the added benefit of toning your thighs while you go, but it also brings up that tricky issue of aim, which is a apparently a problem for more women than myself. 

Should the stars align and you have everything you need, you still won’t be able to flush the toilet paper in most public bathrooms. Instead, there’s a vile smelling bucket with a lid called a papeleteria, which is there to serve all your used toilet paper needs. Sadly, touching the papeleteria, particularly in bathrooms without soap, is a horrible necessity.

There came a night not too long ago when I realized I’ve started adapting to my surroundings. Ruyman and my bedroom is a kind of outbuilding set apart from the rest of the house, which includes the bathroom. The rest of the family were in bed and the house was locked tight, leaving my full bladder few options. In a moment of quiet desperation, I went out on the patio, found a spot untouched by the dogs, and did some urinando a fuera just like everybody else. 

My balance still sucks.