Long ago, in a galaxy remarkably similar to the one we live in now, I read an article in Rolling Stone magazine titled “Among the Euroweenies” by P.J. O’Rourke. It was a hilarious takedown of everything in Europe that Americans find just a little strange.

The gem I remember most from that story was his observation that European phones (we had landlines then, even though we didn’t call them that—we just called them phones) sounded like dogs farting.

While the wit was more profane than Innocents Abroad by Mark Twain, it captured the essence of what it’s like for Americans to travel. We see the world through our own lenses and, being as well trained as lab rats in a maze, notice everything that is different and wonder what in the hell got into these folks to be different from us.

What in God’s great universe makes them think their ideas are better than mine?

American Lenses, Foreign Logic

In other words, we are so in love with our own shit that we can’t accept the fact that someone else might have put more brain sweat into something than we did.

(By the way, this is the same thing that happens when your boss presents his idea as the gold standard and you point out the flaws—only to be asked to leave the meeting because you are “not helping.”)

Chief among these cultural irritants, for me, is electrical outlets.

Why is it that I have to carry a separate bag devoted entirely to plug adapters? Isn’t our American plug good enough for everyone? Didn’t we invent electricity? That’s what we were taught in school. Old Ben Franklin and his kite. Edison. Tesla. All Americans.

I mean, technically Tesla was an immigrant—but his pigeon was American.

Soap, Toilets, and Other Cultural Mysteries

On this trip, I’ve been struck by a couple of things that seem a little out of kilter to this American eye.

Let me start with the soap in our hotel room. The brand is called ToiletPaper. Not kidding. I have pictures. Why would anyone want to name a soap after a product used to clean your ass after defecating? Mind-boggling, the way these European minds work.

(By the way, the product works just fine. No complaints. Don’t sue me.)

The second observation is more delicate.

Toilets.

I’m not complaining about the two buttons. I like that idea. It seems smart. A little flush for things that wash away easily and a more powerful blast for things that don’t. It should be an American standard (see what I did there).

No—the toilet here at the Elaya Hotel has a viewing shelf built into it. How to put this delicately: instead of your deposit falling into a pool of water, like we have in America, it lands on a slightly angled shelf.

The only purpose I can conceive of for this shelf is the viewing of one’s shit.

Admittedly, we Americans do gaze into our toilets to see what our exertions have wrought (“I didn’t have corn last night”), but we do so through a layer of water that mercifully obscures our duty.

I think this is better for two reasons. First: smell. Maybe yours doesn’t, but mine does. Second: water magnifies. And while I like to think of myself as a big shit, I don’t really need the visual confirmation. That might be an ego thing.

A Final Word on European Showers

Finally, before I go out and sightsee, why do Europeans insist on showers that require either a master’s degree in plumbing or two solid YouTube videos to operate?

Granted, European showers are generally better than American ones—especially those with actual thermostats—but instead of leaving us to scald or freeze, they really should put up a QR code explaining how to properly use the damn things.

The Luxury of Being Confused

And yet, for all the baffling outlets, branded soap, porcelain viewing shelves, and shower controls engineered by mad geniuses, there’s something oddly comforting about being the confused one.

Travel, at its best, reminds you that the world doesn’t exist to accommodate your habits, your assumptions, or your plug adapters. It forces you—briefly, awkwardly—to laugh at yourself while standing half-dressed in a foreign bathroom, wondering which lever will release the water and which will summon the fire of hell.

And maybe that’s the real luxury of being abroad: not that things work better or worse, but that they work differently—and for a few days, you’re the one who has to adapt.