The day I became European

This is perhaps an abuse of my blog's title, presuming that I will always have spiritual things to talk about...however I find myself in a strange world here in "Europe" and often times am walking myself into trouble of my own making through lack of knowledge of the places I am visiting and wanted to write a bit about it.

I have often struggled with where I am from. Am I Irish, am I British? (I am Northern Irish, but have a UK passport.) I feel no pride in the country of my birth, actually I'm feeling no "pride" in anything anymore - when did being proud become a good thing?! I should say instead, I feel no sense of identity in my small part of the world. Anyways, there are many things I am sure I am not. "European" is one of those things.

I'm not sure why 'European' is a bad thing to me. Perhaps it's because that title presumes to strip all personality from each of the many European countries and places the worst of the 'decision making / law enforcing / politically correct' masking tape over all of them.

I'd like to think that's where my reasoning lies, but really it's the little things that identify me as a non-European. I don't go nude on beaches, I definitely rid myself of body hair, I don't pedal around on a bicycle with a cigarette in my mouth...there are other little things like the fact that I like to use actual toilets and not...well, I don't know what they're called. Let's say 'squatties' (as opposed to 'potties'.)

I want to just set the scene of my unfortunate incident - just so you don't judge me too badly & see that I had no other choice. We had been travelling for a couple hours, and as unaccustomed as I was to the heat, I had been drinking a LOT of water. (We don't seem to have air conditioning in France.) Anyways, we couldn't seem to find the hotel and I was BURSTING to use the bathroom. Seldom have I ever found myself in such a predicament of NEEDING to find a bathroom. We stopped at a supermarket and asked in our best French, "Ou est la salle de bains?" The assistant smirked at our accent/use of their language and told us something about "the back." Assuming she meant the back of the shop I took step after painful step in search of relief but to no avail. There was no bathroom at the back nor at the front or the sides of the supermarket so outside I went hoping to find one behind the shop. There wasn't one. There was, however, quite an empty car park with a partially tree shaded recycling unit in the middle. It was a spur of the moment emergency decision as I marched with purpose towards the unit, Judah in tow. "Keep a look out!" I called to Jay as I did the unthinkable.

Imagine then the surprise of the French person who was minding his own business pulling into the car park, his car full of recycling. I was past the point of no return when I caught a glimpse of a dark green vehicle pulling up behind us. Assuming that Jay, in his wisdom, had thought to protect our dignity by pulling over in the car; I and my now half-naked son continued in the task at hand until I heard the alarming sound of the clinking of glass entering the recycling bin.

For a split second I panicked and stood up - skirt still aloft, thus startling the eco-friendly Frenchman. Ducking back down to correct myself and cover up my son, I took Judah by the hand and casually emerged from behind the bins and made the swift walk of shame to the cover of our car, as if I had not just become a nudist, squatting-al-fresco European.

There are other stories, such as speaking 'Franish' to a French family (that would be me speaking in error a poor mix of French and Spanish in a conversation) but frankly, that's enough embarrassing confessions for one day.

*Special thanks to my friend, Anne Cortez who helped me identify the language I was speaking. I couldn't have written this blog without you ;)