Pants-less in China

By Adrienne Franceschi

19.07.2008

The first time I used a squat toilet in China I was terrified--and unsure of the logistics. One of my classmates, Sandie, demonstrated the proper technique for me and a few others in the girls' bathroom. But I was still uncertain; I just didn't believe I could do it without peeing all over myself (and my clothes). I had no desire to sit on the BOCOG bus for two hours smelling like urine. So, I decided to take my pants off. What followed is what I like to call the squat-toilet-tango:

Gingerly navigating the muddy floor, I balanced on one foot while stepping out of one pant leg. I then slowly lowered my foot, ensuring that it hit its given target: my black Reef flip-flop. I then proceeded with the other leg, and repeated the process for my underwear. I held my pack of tissues with my teeth and hung up my clothes on the hook. Meanwhile, a whole gaggle of girls were waiting impatiently in line, which only exacerbated the problem. I was starting to break a sweat.

I'm the kind of person who will hold it for miles rather than going by the side of the road. When my family "camped," we went to the nearest K.O.A., which had communal bathrooms and showers. We even drove home once when we ran out of diapers for my twin sisters (my dad had, of course, underestimated) and then drove right back, in time to roast marshmallows for s'mores.

Needless to say, I got a lot of incredulous looks when I told a few of my friends about my "method." I admired girls like Susie, who strutted into the squat stalls with confidence, while the rest of us waited in line for the one Western toilet. A few days later, I sucked it up and squatted without taking my clothes off and was as jubilant as a toddler in training when I burst out of the stall proclaiming, "I did it!"

That wasn't the last time I was caught without pants in China.

On the way to work yesterday, Caty and I were caught in a torrential downpour. It was so bad that most of the Chinese commuters were waiting in the subway station instead of braving the streets. We were the dumb Americans sharing one umbrella, getting completely soaked. By the time we checked in we were quite the sight. I was totally prepared to spend the day in wet jean capris, finding consolation in a rare cup of coffee from KFC. However, one of the site supervisors, an intimidating woman named "Maria," thought otherwise.

The three of us were in the Press Workroom, and after looking around to check for possible men, she suggested that I take my pants off. And when I say suggested, I really mean insisted. I tried to protest, but she led me into the press locker room and set up a folding chair in the back corner. She then wheeled in a magazine rack for my pants, and stood there while I undressed. By then I was turning red, and Caty was trying hard not to laugh. I think I was in a state of shock, and rather than fight it I decided to follow orders.

I spent the next 40 minutes or so sitting by myself in the locker room with no pants on, praying nobody turned the corner and saw the new girl sitting half-naked, sipping a cup of coffee and trying to look casual, as if this were something I did on a regular basis. After a while, I had to pee pretty badly, but I was afraid to get up. In a moment of clarity I thought to myself: I've come half-way around the world to sit in time-out. All those threats my mother made when I was little were finally coming true.

I was later allowed to re-join the group, and I walked back in shame, unsure of what I had done wrong or why I felt so belittled. She was only trying to help, even if my pants were still sopping wet and difficult to pull on. When I related the story later that night to Jenna and Sylvie, I should have anticipated Sylvie's response:

"I didn't know it was so easy to get your pants off."

(Sorry, mom)