Czech your bladder

Or, A tale of peeing in Prague.

The year, 2011. The continent, Europe. The mission, impossible.


One day, while living the lives of spoiled brats abroad, two friends and I decided to depart Dublin in favor of sunnier cities and warmer days. Other spoiled brats will know what a pain in your private parts flying budget European airlines is: your luggage can't be larger than a men's wallet and can't weigh more than three feathers, you can't be afraid of most likely dying while landing in the next city, and you must be willing to travel at the most ungodly of hours. So, I packed two pairs of shorts, a few shirts, a one-piece romper, and planned to wear the only shoes I would bring. We slept in our travel clothes for a few hours and then our cheap asses were off to Italy, the Czech Republic, and France. We ventured from Dublin at an hour that belongs to a confusing area between night and morning and where the stumbling drunk people are gone but cafe and newsstand workers aren't out yet. Just us and our taxi.

The weather forecast for this trip was 75 and sunny in every city, and we made sure we had sun screen and were well hydrated. After we left Rome and Cinque Terre for Prague though, we were burnt and thirsty. Our flight delayed and a whole day lost, we slept and rose early to pack in a tour of the entire city in one day. The tour, courtesy of our weirdo hostel manager, would be four hours long. Four hours full of beating rays of deadly sunlight and hot air sucking us dry. I wore my most comfortable outfit: the one-piece romper (shorts and lace-top ensemble) and my one pair of shoes. I vowed to buy a water anywhere we stopped on the walking tour, starting with our hostel lobby, which was the first stop. This is how weird our guide was: He'd etched his favorite Czech people's names onto the door of the hostel, but also included Wes Anderson with no explanation but, "Because of Tenenbaums." Sure. Okay, then.

Fast forward five and a half hours later. Fast forward through the Kafka Museum, Old Square, the bridges, the Lennon wall, the Castle gardens, and six large bottles of water. Finally, escaping from the wrath of Wes Anderson's biggest fan, the three of us asked for a suggestion of a restaurant and then set our for a place called Bar Bar where the food was hearty and the beer was....big. Exhausted and more burnt, we finally plopped down at Bar Bar and ordered the only drinks on the menu: enormous mugs of ambiguous Czech beer. Mmmm. To be clear, these beers were stupid big. I was sitting with my elbow on the table and my head in my hand when they arrived. As the waitress slammed mine down next to me, my eyes were even with the foam spilling over the top. That kind of big.

It took all my energy to lift that mug of delicious, ambiguous Czech beer, with both hands mind you, and take possibly the most refreshing sip of liquid my tongue has ever had the pleasure of tasting. A plate full of roasted potatoes, stuffed chicken, and some crunchy asparagus later, we were deliriously full with Czech food and a little loopy from Czech beer. We planned to walk all the way back to Old Square for a festival where we could sit outside now that the sun was going down, eat sausage, and drink Pilsner Urquells. As my mother raised me properly, I knew such a walk after such a day would require me to use the bathroom first. And then the fun started.

I packed my wallet, phone, and camera in my bag, threw it across my body, and stood up from the table to make for the bathroom. Oh my God. No. Oh my GOD. Stay calm. I walked slowly with the tensest muscles as I could manage, tried to remain calm, and casually moved twenty feet to the ladies room. Oh, thank God. I made it. Whew. I opened the heavy wooden door and took two more steps to the stall. But when I turned to lock the stall door behind me, I could barely stand up straight anymore. Then I looked down, and said out loud, "Oh shit. No. No, no, no." I saw the shiny links of my purse across my body from shoulder to hip. Under that, a knotted belt. Under that, six buttons on my top half and four under my belt. And even if I conquered the purse, belt, and buttons triathlon, I still had to pull the romper off my arms and down my legs.

As I lifted my purse from my shoulder, it happened. I peed my pants. Twenty-one years old, sober, in the daytime, in a bathroom, standing next to a toilet. I peed my pants. Down my legs, on my shoes. I managed to...stop. And then strip and actually use the bathroom the way they're meant to be used. But the damage had been done. I was a human adult who peed her pants because she was too lazy to use the bathroom when she arrived at a restaurant after drinking six bottles of water. After cleaning off my legs and feet for ten minutes, I looked at my splotchy, wet shoes and romper. And then I said a prayer to the gods of the Dyson Airblade Hand Drier, ran to the bathroom door, locked it, and dried off my clothes.

I ran out of the bathroom, slinging my bag over my shoulder, yelled, "Ready? Good! Let's go," and darted out of Bar Bar, down the street, and around the corner vowing never to speak of this event ever. It was like a month later when it became funny and I told my two friends what had happened that fateful day in Bar Bar on a small side street in Prague. The day that I peed my pants.