As mentioned in a much earlier blog post, I ended up at a
colorful hostel in Paris with several roommates. I’ve already written about one,
Mrs. Iceland, but there are many others—Oliver whose sign of respect is eating
things, two Brazilians—Talita and her lover, whose named sounded suspiciously
like Guano--who seemed to be attempting to set a record for the loudest public
sex in the filthiest place (the hostel), and a naked Italian man who would
periodically show up in the room despite not being a guest of the hostel or a
guest of any of the hostel guests. On my last morning I woke up to find that this
morning the part of all of my roommates would be played by four absolutely
enormous Asian men.
But today I want to talk to you about Mackenzie*.
Mackenzie was from Napa Valley—a California girl like me,
though she was from up north, in wine country. I don’t remember too much what
she looked like. She had freckles, but the weird kind that you don’t really
notice until you get up close and then you’re like, “WHOOAAAAAAA! YOUR ENTIRE
FACE IS FRECKLES!” I know she was sort of petite and had a sort of farm girl
quality about her, like you wouldn’t be surprised if she interrupted your
conversation with the phrase, “Oh, excuse me for a moment, I just have to go
plow the fields, be right back” except she disappointingly never said that.
Like many Americans at small
liberal arts colleges, Mackenzie had spent her junior year abroad. After living
in Mali for several months, she was taking a vacation in Paris before heading
back home. She was thrilled to talk about Mali, and we were thrilled to listen.
Heck, I don’t know anything about Mali.
Tell me about the culture! The music! The people! The politics! The food! Come
to think of it, I have no idea where the hell Mali is, so maybe also show me
where it is on a map…
If Mrs Iceland talked way too
much about all aspects of Iceland, Mackenzie spoke exclusively of ONE
aspect of Mali:
Butt hygiene.
Yes, in all the fascinating things I assume you could say
about Mali (I don’t know for sure, since I still only know about how they clean
their asses there), this girl was passionate about the way that the people of
Mali apparently use what she dubbed “butt kettles” to clean up after themselves
after using the toilet.
To be fair, it’s an interesting thought, and I’m glad she
mentioned it. However, the existence of this particular form of butt-washing warrants
a couple of David Attenborough-style observations, maybe a few jokes. It does
not, as Mackenzie decided it did, warrant an evening-long enthusiastic campaign
for us all to adopt the Mali butt kettle system. Noticed by any NORMAL person,
this peculiar cultural detail would not have sparked the complete denunciation
of toilet paper, as it did in Mackenzie, who raged against toilet paper with
the sort of indignation that you might expect from victims of genocide.
I honestly thought she was going to start crying when she
spoke of the liberation she felt the first time she switched from Charmin to
Butt Kettle. I suppose everyone has something they’re passionate about. For
some people it’s gay rights, or animal rights, or abortion, or gun control or
whatever. I guess for Mackenzie it’s the abolition of toilet paper.
I often thought about her during my first month of being
back in the US, when I was going through my own reverse culture shock. Mine was
mostly about realizing that I can no longer make a joke about ____ or ____
anymore. That every story of anything that happened in either where I lived or at school required about 10 minutes of explaining how things work in England.
Discovering that if the words “Church of England” come out of my mouth one more
time then someone needs to just euthanize me.
But at least I didn't acquire a love of butt kettles while in England. I
thought of Mackenzie. Oh man though, Mackenzie, HAVE FUN with that reverse
culture shock.
