World Record

A plastic DVD encoded with an ultrasound video of my heart has apparently traveled from Santa Barbara to NYC at breakneck speed. (UPS promised to have it at my doctor’s office on the east coast exactly 18 hours after it was delivered to them on the west coast.) So as it now makes its way through the machinations of the largest cancer institute in the world, this is likely to be the calm before the storm. I’m therefore going to fill the downtime with an off-topic post . . .

Virtually none of you know that I am a world record holder. No kidding. I set my record in Paris in December of 1981. No, it was never certified by Guinness World Records, but it’s an absolute certainty that it was, and still is, a record for the ages.

I had the good fortune of landing a great engineering job fresh out of college that promised the opportunity of regular travel to Europe. And one year later, as promised, I had my first assignment: standing outdoors for a week in the FREEZING cold of the dead of winter on a weapons testing range at the East/West German border within sniper range of the border towers. The fact that this flip-flop-wearing beach boy may have been a little out of his element was immaterial . . .

Anyway, everybody told me in advance of the trip that I couldn’t make a business trip to Germany without tacking on some vacation time somewhere else, and Paris was the unanimous choice of those planning my vacation. So . . . Paris it was!

Now, you gotta understand that this was a BIG adventure for a small town boy from Santa Barbara. And I have to admit that I started getting a little impressed with myself for having had this great assignment fall into my lap. Anyway, I had NO idea how to pack for Siberia so I simply brought LOTS of everything: long underwear, thick socks, boots, jackets, sweatshirts, flannel shirts, knit caps, gloves, etc, etc, etc. Did I mention LOTS of everything? Given that I had enough stuff with me to clothe every soldier in the Russian army for the duration of both world wars, it is amazing that I got it all to fit in a large suitcase, a medium suitcase, a duffle bag, and a briefcase. Yes, I was loaded down.

Of course when I got to Germany, I had to buy Christmas presents and souvenirs. For everybody I knew. Half a case of bad German wine, beer steins, oversized coffee table books, cigars in hand-carved wooden display cases, a fragile anniversary clock, and other long forgotten odds and ends, the sum total of which doubled the volume and weight of what I had to schlep along with me EVERY FUCKING STEP OF MY JOURNEY. If I had dumped the entire load on a pack mule I’d have been immediately arrested for animal cruelty.

The night before my early morning train departed from Dusseldorf to Paris, the friends I had made while standing in the bitter cold of the test range took me out drinking in the Old Town. I do not recall what the local poison was in that time and place, but it was certainly not appropriate for human consumption. I made it back to my hotel room in time for my 4:30AM wake-up call. Is it still called a hangover if you never go to sleep? Regardless of the terminology, I was very ill and in no condition to travel any farther than from one side of a bed to the other. But world-traveling adventures called, so I strapped myself in underneath my ridiculous mountain of stuff and set sail for the train station.

I had pre-purchased second-class fare. Who’d know the difference when I confidently bounded off the train in Paris anyway? But when I reached the departure platform I couldn’t have cared less about first class vs. second class, I was simply trying to decide if I should begin the complicated process of disentangling myself from the mountain of stuff before I puked all over that shiny German train. I collapsed into the first seat of the first car, which was comprised of private compartments. This didn’t seem like second class but there was no fucking way I was gonna move. Because I couldn’t. I was too sick.

Once I confirmed that all four limbs were still attached, I slowly looked up and noted that I had selected a compartment that was occupied by a tall Japanese woman. She was studying me curiously. Her hair was done in a style that could only be described as “poodle-esque”. She wore tight leather pants and a coat that appeared to be fabricated from the pelts of every poodle she had ever owned. She unnerved me even more than the East German guards with their sniper rifles . . .

If I was encroaching on her space she’d just have to move. She kept looking at my collection of stuff, figuring that I must be the bellhop for a traveling circus that would certainly be boarding the train at any moment. She relaxed a little as the train left the station, but it didn’t take long to determine that we didn’t share a single word of vocabulary in common. It was going to be an even longer ride than expected.

The nausea was relentless. And as the day wore on I had an increasing urge to use the bathroom as there hadn’t been any time that morning. But I couldn’t get up. And I didn’t trust poodle lady alone with my all my Christmas presents. And I had no idea when we would be in Paris and didn’t want to miss the stop because I was in the bathroom. So I sat there, my agony interrupted only twice. Once to pay an ungodly sum of money to the conductor to upgrade my second class ticket to the first class seat that I would not, could not, surrender. And a second time for the customs charade as we crossed the border into France. Thankfully, neither event required that I get up out of my seat.

Waiting for your train to arrive in Paris is worse than waiting for a pot of water to boil. It seems like the closer you get, the farther away you are . . .

Anyway, the train finally reached Paris and I was in a desperate state of affairs. I saddled up once again and stepped off the train, setting foot on French soil for the first time. Every step was undertaken with great care in an effort to avoid busting my gut. Using a public restroom was out of the question – what would I have done with the mountain of luggage? It would have been picked clean by vultures before I even sat down. Being the off season, I had not made a hotel reservation. This, it turned out, worked to my advantage, as the “California Hotel” patiently awaited my arrival directly across the street from the train station.

I entered the closet-sized lobby and told the attendant that I wanted a room – with bathroom. He indicated that he understood and assigned me a room on the top floor. The obligatory passport identification business went smoothly, but I would have admitted to being Lizzie Borden if it would have expedited matters even slightly. Immediately upon completion of check-in, I bulldozed my mountain of belongings into the elevator, which made a phone booth seem roomy. Piling my stuff to the ceiling, I climbed on top of the lower items and began the excruciatingly long ride to the top floor.

I honestly do not remember how I got my stuff from the elevator to the room, but it must have been a combination of carrying, dragging, pushing, and bullying. When I finally got the door to my room open, I shoved everything inside and stumbled to the bathroom, coats and sweaters flying everywhere as I stripped off what I could. Reaching the bathroom, I dropped my pants and sat down in one seamless motion, narrowly averting a medical emergency. I don't think I could have waited even one more minute.

After concluding my business, I reached for the toilet paper. But couldn’t find it. Then I noticed that even for a European toilet, this one was low on water. And as I regained my senses for the first time that day, it dawned on me . . . my bathroom did not have a toilet, only a shower and a . . . bidet.

So that is my world record: the shortest interval of time between first setting foot on French soil and crapping in a bidet. Couldn’t have been more than ten or fifteen minutes, tops. I honestly can’t imagine a scenario in which this record could ever be broken . . .

The embarrassment of sitting in that bathroom, alone with my shame, was soon overshadowed by the dirty business of transporting my deposit from the bidet to the toilet in the communal bathroom . . . at the other end of the hall. It was a humbling experience. Yes, it was Paris, and the small town kid from Santa Barbara had already made it his own.