The Life and Times of the Curious Cockroach

Written on December 2nd, 2008, at 6:01pm
Location: bathroom stall, super posh Brussels restaurant
Emotional state: indescribable

Here I am: standing in a bathroom stall with marble floors, clutching my boyfriend’s love letter in my hand, watching with complete awe as the automated toilet seat before me rotates while cleaning itself and perfuming the air, and wondering if the ten or so American CEOs in the private dining room outside are aware of the fact that I’ve been hiding in the bathroom for the last twenty minutes. My eyes are glued to the technological display before me – imagine flashing lights, whistling noises, and the occasional rose petal blown forth – and I feel a mixture of happiness (boyfriend’s letter), wonder (auto toilet seat), and panic (CEOs outside). Oh, and I’m a tad drunk.

(Ten hours earlier)

The Mission

The adventure of the letter/toilet seat/CEOs began, like many exciting things do, during my 8:00 am microeconomics lecture. I was just about to fall asleep on my seat neighbour yet again, when – just my luck! – my phone began to vibrate. The call was from some long and foreign-looking number. Fortunately the professor was busy picking on a student at the other end of the lecture hall, so I was able to slip out unnoticed. Very bad, I know.

The call was from someone with a noticeable Boston accent, who introduced himself as Mr. Johnson. Mr. Johnson told me he used to work for the U.S. Ministry of Health, and now works for the International Institute of Catheter Research. He also informed me that he was in Brussels for a two-day conference titled “Thermoplastic Elastomers: Use and Abuse in Catheter Insertion Techniques”. He said all of this in a quick and nonchalant manner, as if I already knew these details and my memory just had to be refreshed.

Mr. Johnson gave me instructions to meet him and his colleagues in the center of Brussels, and join them for dinner after the conference. As Mr. Johnson told me, he himself had been given instructions: to hand-deliver a letter to me.

“A letter from…erm…whom exactly? From the American government, or the International Institute of Catheter research?” I asked, utterly confused but slightly amused.

“From someone far more important: my nephew,” he said.

There was a lengthy pause.

“You know, your boyfriend.”

‘

The Secret Weapon (of a Confused Dinner Guest)

Within a few hours I found myself sitting in a private dining room of a posh restaurant, surrounded by frighteningly accomplished people. Most of them were CEOs of pharmaceutical companies, some were catheter researchers and designers, and others were … well, I never quite understood what they were. There were multiple courses still to come, and the conversations around me were already becoming astronomically difficult to follow. Plus, Mr. Johnson seemed to have forgotten about his assignment.

So how does a clumsy eighteen-year-old like me keep afloat in such company, you might ask?

Let me introduce you to what I call “The Secret Weapon (of a Confused Dinner Guest)”. If you are ever in the presence of a complex breed of human beings who have very little in common with you (in age, education, occupation, accomplishment, etc), and they happen to start telling you about their careers, and you happen to be thoroughly lost but have chosen to play along, this Weapon might just be your saving grace.

Say, your seat neighbour has just informed you he is an Arterial Catheter Orclospeditian. You have no idea what this means, and it not the time or place to fully admit it. So here’s what you do:

Look very zen.

Conceal your inner panic.

Begin with a simple “Tell me …”, and then leave your neighbour in suspense as you take an unhurried sip of wine or bite of duck confit.

Look your neighbour straight in the eye, lean in a little bit, and say very meaningfully: “… what does that involve, exactly?”

‘
If your delivery is just right, your neighbour will never guess you are asking “What in hell is an Arterial Catheter Orclospeditian?”, but might interpret your vague inquiry as something along the lines of “Say, mate, do you perform catheter orclospedics with natural rubber or synthetic materials?”

And there you have it. While your new acquaintance delights himself in answering your question, you have a good five minutes to either figure out what is an Orclospeditian, or plan out your escape route.

‘

The Escape

By now I’m sure you’re wondering when the aforementioned automated toilet seat comes into play. Let’s just say that by the time Mr. Johnson slipped me the letter, I had already used The Secret Weapon so many times that all those “unhurried sips of wine” began taking a toll on me. I could no longer remember anyone’s name or the details I had learned about them. The horror!

So I did what a lady does in distress – I took refuge in the bathroom. I read the lovely letter, gathered my senses back together, and by the time the toilet seat had done its circuit around the bathroom stall, I was ready to enjoy the dinner anew.

Mission accomplished. (Phew!)

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