Carol’s Column

When a country hick takes on the USA

FOR 15 minutes I stared mesmerised at the toilet bowl. Which you might think was not a particularly nice thing to do.

I could not find an implement with which to flush what Spike Milligan calls the “easence”. There was no handle, no button, no plunger. Nothing.

Yes, America had its problems. I could not believe that the Americans, a pure, fastidious people, of breath sprays, toe deodorants and sanitised earbuds, never flushed their toilets.

It was possible that American toilet water contained a mystical chemical that rapidly liquidated whatever was within. Possible but not probable.

I even tried the Moses full-frontal attack. “Go away,” I said to the toilet bowl. “Flush.” Unlike the Red Sea, there was no action.

And then I spotted it, neatly tucked below the bowl, next to the floor, a pedal push flusher.

You see nothing is standard in America.

Taps do not turn on and off. They bend, twist, gyrate, spout. They are marked with arrows, colours, letters, dots and squares. They turn left, right, up, down or every which way.

It took an hour to work out how to switch on the bathroom light, flush the toilet, turn on the tap and that was even before I’d brushed my teeth and put on a face and my drip-dry lightweight travelling wig.

I found myself plugless in Atlanta. The hole was large and I’d lost weight while travelling. It would be worrisome to be washed down the plughole.

“Hello, this is Julie, can I be of assistance?” said a voice when I phoned the housekeeper.

“Yes, I need a plug for my bath,” I replied.

“A what?”

“A plug?”

“An adaptor?”

“No, a plug.”

“What for?”

“For my bath.”

“You want to block the toilet?”

And then, at last: “Oh, you need a stopper for the tub.”

Cross-legged in Macy’s, I learnt a toilet, cloakroom, lavatory, jazz, john or water closet is a restroom and once incarcerated therein, Americans tinkle.

A handbag is a purse while a female purse is a sexist billfold.

And always, there were surprises.

Exotic oysters, crunchy crab claws and super-size shrimp with iced beer is standard fare at most American airports. I flew happily throughout the country in a constant state of aphrodisiacal euphoria becoming more fragrant by the moment.

The refresher towels were dipped in one cologne, the tissues in another. The toilet paper was scented, as were the seats, foot rests and wine.

At Dallas I lost my suitcase. The only one left on the carousel was similar but belonged to Mr Song Hing Wing. Oh God, he was probably in Hawaii in my natty pink striped bermuda short set while I’d be stuck in London in his rayon three-piece creaseless suit.

When is an egg not an egg? When it is American made, hatched and despatched. After the five minute pleasantries: “How y’all, Honey, you’re lookin’ a l’l peaky today, let me bring you some grits,” we got on to the egg debate. “Sunnyside up, easy and over, cocked ...” the list was endless, not to mention hash browns, oatmeal buns and stacked waffles.

It is consumer wonderland. I came back with a diffusor, purple contact lenses, and inflatable bras that, when in place, cannot be distinguished from the real thing.

But best of all is the American saying “Have a nice day.” They say it with feeling, with heart, liver, spleen and kidneys.

Which is how it should be.

All this and Bruce Springsteen too.

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