It wasn’t generally in Elka’s nature to enter an establishment and try to use the bathroom without paying for something. But it was a moment of desperation—the end of a long day spent hoofing it throughout the city and squandering most of her money on “grazing.” In other words, going from one outpost to another for food or a drink, all ultimately in service of having access to a bathroom whenever the occasion arose. Which it frequently did…no matter how little Elka tried to drink.

And though she had done her due diligence by pissing not just once, but twice before she left the last establishment—a place called La Douce—it didn’t prevent “the urge” from coming on suddenly during her long walk back to the hotel where she was staying. And so, against every fiber of her being, she decided to take a chance on going into a random café and just directly asking, “Would it be possible to use the bathroom?”

Though said in her very “best” French, the waiter still replied in English, “What country are you from?” As if the correct answer to that question would be the deciding factor in terms of whether she could use the bathroom without actually having to buy something. This is what Elka could feel in her bones, having absorbed a sense of general derision all day whenever she noticed a Parisian waiter overhearing customers thunderously boom their conversations in “American.” Or maybe she was just being overly paranoid. Maybe she was “projecting,” and no one actually thought all that much about the “political situation.” Maybe all anyone cared about, no matter what, was either spending or making money. Which is precisely what a “tourist trap” like Paris operated on. As long as someone was paying and being paid, no one fundamentally cared about “international relations.” Or rather, a total breakdown thereof.

It could be this French waiter was just flexing his “unique” (read: universal to all French waiters) humor and truly had no idea how much his “simple” question was making her squirm. Yes, that was definitely it, Elka assured herself, gathering her strength and clenching her pelvic floor muscles to keep the urine at bay just a bit longer in order to engage in the “har-har-har”/“yuk-yuk-yuk” “banter” he was clearly seeking as a kind of toll. Yet, still knowing in her heart of hearts how despised the U.S. was worldwide, she couldn’t prevent herself from at last replying, “C’est un secret.”

With a wink, the waiter then openly stated the condition for use of the toilette: “You can tell me your secret when you’re done using the bathroom.” In his mind, “a fair trade.” In Elka’s, an unnecessary exertion of his minimal power in the world posing as “jocular good-naturedness.” But she went along with it, her bladder inciting her to agree to anything so long as it could once again release its contents.

As was the custom with most toilettes in Parisian cafés, restaurants, etc., one had to descend a staircase in order to get to what cruder Americans might call “the can.” And, in essence, it was a can. A tin can. This due to its cramped nature, with the odd assumption being that everyone was thin and dainty enough to fit into these spaces when, for the most part, an American tourist could barely fit one ass cheek in that space before even being able to sit down. Elka believed the French never bothered upgrading the sizes of their bathrooms because it was a sadistic pleasure to remind Americans of how much room they took up wherever they went, literally and metaphorically.

Elka could just barely say that she “fit comfortably” inside one of these stalls that felt more like a gimp cage than a place to relieve one’s bladder or bowels. But comfort was hardly of any importance to her in this moment, when all she wanted was the sweet release of the urine that had built up so quickly inside of her.

Having finished the “task at hand,” Elka soon remembered she now had to “pay the piper” in the form of something like “witty” dialogue. Which ultimately made her wish she had just sat down again and paid for another coffee, thereby repeating the cycle that had ensnared her in always needing the bathroom while on this trip in the first place. Climbing the stairs slowly, she could see that the waiter was otherwise engaged in some “waiterly” activity, his back to her as he sorted various dishes on his round black tray.

This was her chance. Her chance to flee and be forever forgotten by this man, this sentry. And just as she thought she might be able to successfully tiptoe past him, he seemed to catch sight of her in the mirror he was facing, whipping around to command, “Ah. Now you tell me where you’re from.”

Elka froze in her tracks, no longer capable of putting off her declaration of the truth any longer. So finally, she mumble-said, “U.S.”

The waiter grinned, vindicated. “I thought so.”

Not wanting to linger after being needled into this confession, Elka continued, “Well, better get going. Thanks for the bathroom.”

The waited tutted at her. “Not so fast. Where in the U.S.? What state?”

Elka was actually starting to sweat. “Erm, Illinois. But I don’t live there anymore.” Christ, why am I being so honest with this stranger?

“Illinois. Capital: Springfield.”

She looked at him with surprise. “Yes, uh, a lot of people don’t usually get that. Think it’s Chicago, or even fucking Aurora—oops, ‘pardon my French.’”

But the waiter didn’t seem to care about her swearing, nor did he seem to have any grasp of that bizarre English expression, which actually originally stemmed from the upper class of nineteenth-century Britain apologizing to those who didn’t know what they were saying whenever they inserted a random French phrase into their conversation as if to show off how well-educated they were. Instead, the waiter took Elka’s “praise” of his knowledge about what the capital of Illinois was as an opportunity to give her a quiz.

“And do you know what the capital of Oregon is?”

At some point in her life, she did. Back when she would fritter away hours in the computer lab with her fellow classmates under the guise of it being “language arts.” It was on those computers that a state capitals memorization game was offered, and she played it frequently. But right now, in this instant, she truly couldn’t remember the capital of Oregon, though she was keenly aware it wasn’t Portland. Had to be some more “off-the-beaten-path” town. So she took a stab and offered, “Eugene?”

“No, no, no, no. I feel so bad for you that you don’t know the capitals of the states of your own country.”

Elka suddenly realized she had the strange non-privilege of meeting arguably the only waiter in Paris that got off on reciting U.S. capitals. A means to prove that, quelle surprise, he knew more about an American’s country than they did.

Humoring the waiter and his self-superiority, she implored, “So what is it?”

“Salem.”

Yes! Of course! She should have known that. If only he had asked her the capital to a different state. She could have easily answered for Missouri or Maryland or even Delaware. But no, he had to foist the Pacific Northwest on her. Which was, incidentally, where she would have preferred to be right then, rather than being made to feel like a fool and a git in exchange for using the bathroom. But every “ask” has its price. Nothing comes for free—not in France, and certainly not in the United States. Whether in a capital city or elsewhere.