Brekky and Bathrooms

In our marriage, I tend to have mornings to myself. Our first full day in Australia followed that pattern. I found an electric kettle in our kitchen, but no coffee maker. Rummaging through the pantry, I found COFFEE-MATE (not sure why they spell it in ALL-CAPS everywhere but the logo), sugar, and instant coffee. I’ve never had instant coffee, and now I know why people don’t drink it. I found it passable, though, and had two cups. As I was finishing the second cup, Sherry emerged from the bedroom. She said, “Hey, drink some of this to help with jet lag,” and foisted upon me a mix-with-water packet of magic from Amazon called FlyWell. The packaging claims it’s designed to promote circulation and hydration while combatting jet lag, and I dutifully downed it. And then we got ready to go out for breakfast, which Australians pronounce “brekky” and menus spell a few different ways, including “brekkie” and “breakie.”

As a 55-year-old, I’ve learned to preemptively find the facilities before any lengthy activity, like watching a movie in the theater or going on a long car ride. This time, I goofed. I suppose I was so excited for a Russ-and-Jhett-level brekky that I didn’t think to go. We loaded into Jhett’s Suzuki Jimny and headed to Humble Rays in Carlton. Big mistake. The first part of the drive, I checked out the sculptures by the side of the road. By midway, the ETA on Car Play’s Apple Maps had me riveted. I wiggled my toes inside my shoes, bounced my knees up and down, rubbed my hands together — all the tricks you do to take your mind off your protesting bladder. By the time we got to Humble Rays, I sprinted to the bathroom at the rear of the restaurant. I wasn’t ready for what I found. The logo on the wall had an outline of a man beside the outline of a woman, with a vertical line separating them. It looked something like this:

I froze. “A single,” I thought, but I quickly scanned for more context clues. You don’t want to get this wrong, especially in a foreign country. I saw that the door didn’t have a doorknob, which would allow locking. It had a long, vertical handle. “It must have some kind of latch,” I thought, “or perhaps this door opens to an alcove from which the real bathroom doors open.” As these thoughts jabbed through my mind, a woman walked out the door. I could see inside. No alcove. Not a single. Two stalls. And not the floor-to-ceiling privacy stalls you occasionally see in posh office buildings. These were the typical American stalls that show off your shoes and gape wide at the gaps. One stall had the man-and-woman logo, and the other had a logo with just a woman. This bathroom was woke. The coed stall was occupied, and from the occasional deep grunt I could hear emanating from it, I could tell it was a man. And that he was going to be awhile. I hesitated, then used the women’s stall, decorum be damned. Judge me if you must, but any alternative would have been worse. No one else entered, so I didn’t get caught. I washed up and was out of there, relieved in more ways than one.

We ordered brekky. Russ suggested the brekky-for-two “Meet the Humble,” so Sherry and I ordered that. Russ got the Egg Benny, which he confessed has become his goto. The Meet the Humble landed on our table looking like this:

That’s a lot of food. Per the menu, it included:

• Chicken congee
• Ginger-braised pork belly
• Onsen eggs
• Buttered sweet toast with condensed milk
• Granola with seasonal fresh fruits
• A daily sweet
• Milo or Horlick drinks

We went with the Horlick drinks. I’d never heard of Horlick, but it’s a malted milk drink from the UK and is actually named Horlicks. I’d had plenty of Milo in Chile, a lifetime ago (¡No te tomaste tu Milo!). The Horlicks was just OK, but the brekky was fantastic. I was nervous about how to eat the onsen eggs, so I asked the waiter how to eat them. You get only one chance to crack an egg, after all, so I didn’t want to mess this up. She said, “Oh, it’s an onsen egg!” I waited patiently, holding back any comment about how yes, I can read, and after a pause she continued, saying most people broke it over the congee. That’s what I needed to know. I cracked the egg over the congee, and it looked like this:

These people can do brekky! It was all delicious. Highly recommended.

Between the Horlicks and a cappuccino, I had to use the bathroom again before we left. I figured that this time, I knew what I was getting into, so I confidently strode to the back of the restaurant. I walked through the bathroom door and saw a woman in front of the sink, washing her hands. Deep breath. What’s the etiquette here? Do I wait until she’s done? Brekky bathrooms present so many conundrums. I decided that a bathroom is a bathroom, that she knew the same score I did, and I went into the stall and did my business. This time, I used the coed stall.