Ahh, England, a tourists dream. The land of Big Ben, Stonehenge and The Who. Where better to start off a European excursion then to a place that offers so much in a language I actually speak? And to boot, they eat mushy peas with their fish and chips. I’m not sure of your definition of heaven, but mushy peas with anything does me just right.

Flying into London’s Heathrow airport in late April, I hopped on the subway (aka The Tube) and headed into the city. My intention had been to remain in London for a few days before going north to visit friends, but the magnet of familiarity was pulling me too much. So, after one night, I decided to postpone London and go directly to Newcastle.

My friend, Larry, had advised me to take the train to his humble city as it was faster, offered superior views, and would be more comfortable. I must not have been listening very carefully. "The bus will be fine," I thought to myself as I purchased the ticket. "And anyway, I’m not in a hurry."

We’ll just see about that.

After the first five hours a few things became clear to me. First of all, almost everyone was sitting on the left side of the bus. In my first day’s excitement, all I could think about was how magnificent it was going to be riding on the open road, gazing out this giant window unto places unknown. It hadn’t occurred to me that the sun would eventually be beaming directly on the right side (my side) of the bus like a giant oven, creating untold amounts of heat.

In a vain attempt to escape baking like a Cumberland sausage, I looked to the weary old woman who was across the aisle from me. "Excuse me, ma’m, but would you mind if I sat next to you?" I asked, ever so politely. She must have been narcoleptic because, as soon as I’d asked the question, her eyes closed and she sprouted a beard like Rip Van Winkle. "Wanker!" I thought, and stayed in the oven.

Around this time the driver informed us that we’d be stopping for a short break at an "island" of some kind and to "be back at exactly 4:25 or the bus will depart without you." I figured that would not be a problem. All I had to do was make a phone call to let my friends know what time I’d be arriving in Newcastle, and after I’d talked to them I would take a much needed bathroom break. As soon as the bus docked, I jumped off and sprinted to the phone booth with my shiny new pre-paid phone card.

Being the first time I had used a British payphone, I expected it to be no different from the American version. Ha. I put my pre-paid card into the slot and it started beeping. Figuring I’d inserted it the wrong way, I flipped it over and tried it again. Same alarm. Then I rotated it. "Wa! Wa! Wa!" it beeped as I stood there (literally) in BFE wondering what to do next. It was then that I decided to read the instructions on the phone and discovered that, despite the fact it was the same company who made both the card and provided service for this phone, it didn’t accept this particular card. It was now 4:17. I had eight minutes before lift-off.

Figuring coins were my only option, I ran into the store, grabbed a Kit Kat bar, and stood in line. Have you ever noticed that, when you are in a big hurry, suddenly everyone else isn’t? With only two people in front of me, I expected to be back to the phone in a minute. Was I wrong. In a moment that seemed more like eternity, this guy rustled like a turtle through his pockets as he struggled to come up with the exact change. Then the person directly in front of me wanted to buy a pack of gum with his Visa card creating an international incident that required a full-on discourse between the counter lady and the manager. I stood there trying to remain calm, watching precious minutes float by.

It was now 4:21 and I was feeling the pressure of both the imminent departure of the bus and my need to go to the restroom. "Screw it," I thought. "I need to make this call. I’ll use the bathroom on the bus."

Jamming change down the throat of the BT phone, I dialed the number and it magically rang. To my relief, Ellen answered. "Why, hello Augi, how are you?" Since I had a deadline fast approaching, I told her that I would be at the bus station at 6:00 P.M. to which she asked, "Which station will you be coming to - Sunderland or Newcastle?" Hell, I didn’t know! I figured it must be Newcastle, but wasn’t exactly certain. Unable to ascertain this information as the bus was nearly 100 yards away and I could not possibly run to the bus and back in time, she was telling me where they would tentatively meet me when her voice disappeared mid-sentence. Realizing my credit had been depleted and the phone cut-off, I looked at my watch and nearly had a heart attack: it was 4:24! "Oh, crap!" I said aloud, bursting out of the red phone booth like Clark Kent and wishing I were Superman as I flew back to the bus, praying it had not left.

Just as the doors were closing, I made it back. The driver looked at his watch and gave me a disapproving look. Thankfully, the English are known for not making a scene, so he said absolutely nothing. I smiled and went back to my seat. I didn’t care. I’d made it back and was ready for the last leg of our trip. "That’s what the Bus Nazi gets for only giving us a 15 minute break," I thought to myself.

Sometimes, karma happens quicker than you imagine.

Since I had been pre-occupied with making the all-important phone call, I really, really needed to go to the bathroom (aka "The Lou"). Wincing, I walked back to the extremely compact restroom, shut the door, and unzipped my trousers (because that’s what they call them in England), thankful to be at one with myself.

Unbeknownst to yours truly, we had gone from a nice straight a way to some perilous curves during this crucial transition. The stream in full effect, I was suddenly being thrown left, then right, then into the wall as the bus took a corner, feeling like we were being rammed in a car chase. It surprised me that we were moving so erratically as before, when I’d been sitting in my seat, the ride was noticeably calm.

It was as though a tiny red light, positioned next to the driver, came on indicating that a stupid passenger (or a late arriving one) was in the restroom; giving full license to the operator of this machine to take wicked delight in torturing the guilty party.

The driver began braking on, off, on, off, on, causing me to lunge back and forth whilst the fountain swayed like a pendulum. In a near panic I steadied myself praying to god that I maintain my accuracy.

Finally, the deed committed, I went to wash my hands. It was one of those ingeniously designed taps that, to conserve water, requires that you hold DOWN the fricking button to get the water to come out. You know — the kind that, as soon as you let pressure off the button, the flow of water ceases. Now, I don’t know about you, but this is a difficult process even when in a stable, non-moving environment. Try it on Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride and you’ve got yourself an entirely new procedure.

Ever the improviser, I used my extensive knowledge of ballet to gracefully balance myself in the compact space: butt against the wall, one foot on the floor and the other firmly planted on the toilet seat. Feeling secure, I lathered up as I best I could and washed my hands — scrub left, scrub right, rinse, fully body slam into wall, repeat. Was this a test of my motor skills or a tryout for the WWF?

Having spent about 10 minutes performing a mundane task that normally took me about 45 seconds, I shut the door behind me and headed back to my seat. Amazingly, I had stayed on target the entire time. NO matter how many directions that bus went (and me along with it), the force of gravity and the powers that be could do absolutely nothing to send the golden stream anywhere but where it belonged — into the great circular void below. I felt relieved and, more importantly, I felt proud.

Oddly, the looks and subtle laughter I received upon departing the facilities was highly unexpected. Were they applauding me for my brave effort? Were they laughing at me for being too stupid to wait until the next stop? Or were they, along with the bus driver, sharing in some collective perversion that only the locals knew?

It wasn’t until I’d sat down that I understood the nature of their response. Despite all the efforts to prevent my own tributary from hitting me, I wasn’t cognizant of the water that had been splashing all over me when I was washing my hands. My front side was, shall we say, giving the appearance of something other than H2o.

Feeling embarrassed, I looked over at the grandma who had earlier refused me her open seat, hoping for a little sympathy. She shrugged then said in her best British accent, "Well, boy, now ya know why you are sitting on that side of the bus."

Old wanker!

Oh, well. At least I had the sun to dry me out.

Augi, self-styled ‘Freeform Expressionist,’ is currently in the midst of traveling, researching, and developing his next Big Thing. In a former life, he was a creative director, brand manager, and co-founded Pint.Org. He also likes to eat mushy peas, but prefers them with pancakes.