THE SEARCH AND DESTROY MISSION OF FUTILITY: OR WHY I CAN NEVER FIND THE TOILETS IN CAMBRIDGE, ENGLAND

There are public toilets all over the city of Cambridge. The reason I know this is because small signs on large posts say so every few hundred yards. They are even kind enough to provide arrows, which some bloke in local government probably annexed great sums of city funds to include. So why do I keep finding myself downtown with an empty bottle of juice in hand and nowhere to go?

I had been advised ahead of time that Restrooms are called "WCs" in England, but apparently Cambridge missed that memo, because here they are just plain "toilets", as crude a term as ever could be without stepping over into the boundaries of vulgarity. At least by American standards, by which I am loathe to judge anything anyway.

When I left the Phoenix Computing Centre (where International Students have computer access for a modest sum and a very long wait) on July 9th, I was still vaguely out of sync and five hours behind the rest of the city, but I was feeling over-confident in my ability to get where I wanted with little damage to my walking shoes or psyche. Before I began the long trek back to Selwyn Old Court, I felt the need to seek out the public facilities. Enough said on that subject.

The first arrow I found pointed ominously to a blank wall. Imagining myself to be Jennifer Connelly in Labyrinth and hoping a Cockney worm would pop out to direct me, I placed my palms on the cold, worn bricks seeking a secret entrance. There was none to be found. Deciding that the sign really didn't mean "use the wall", I tarried on down the road until I saw another sign and arrow making fairly adament promises that I would reach my destination in 300 yards. So, with hope in my heart, I crossed the street.

(A word here about streets in Cambridge. Somehow, I have finally mastered Roads 101, which taught me that cars are on this planet to terrorize Americans and that bicyclists run the show. The trick is not to get run over and to get on the opposite sidewalk as soon as possible. I will not take the time here to discuss Cluster Tourists clogging the thoroughfares.)

I walked along Silver Street at an easy pace, eyes peeled for the elusive bathrooms, but none were to be seen.

Then, just past the Mathematical Bridge (which apparently needs not studs or nails to stand), I was thrilled to see yet another sign; this one pointing across the street (which is where I had started, but I was still naively trusting the Sign Gods). Across the street was a small, wooden pavillion, octagonal in shape and too small to be much of anything. Since it was covered in postings, I took it to be a message board and I stared at it intently, hoping for some signal.

Sure enough, in amongst the ads for bookstores and cafes, flyers about punting oppportunities and stickers urging buyers to boycott Esso Petrol, was a sign reading "TOILETS" and...more arrows.

(I have to admit now that this had become a mission more of stubborn-ness that necessity by this point.)

I turned and saw a shabby, narrow and steep staircase heading down into a dark tunnel, which to any native New Yorkers is translated as "Here There Be Subways". I walked down a few steps and tentatively peered ahead, but saw no trains or tracks. Instead, there were two doors and placards announcing "Ladies" and "Gents". I chose, of course, the former, a cold, musty room with facilities one step above an outhouse.

I guess that will teach me to drink a large bottle of green tea AND apple juice before I take a walk downtown! If not, well, there are always more signs and arrows to direct me!