Sistine Chapel

Last month marked the two year anniversary of one of my most memorable embarrassing moments...

Rhett lived in Italy from 2000- 2002 serving an LDS mission. Naturally, he wanted to go back, and had planned to return on his honeymoon, but we didn't (click here for the whole story on my telling him about my honeymoon obligations) and ended up going to Italy for two weeks in 2006 after we'd been married two years and just graduated from Weber State.


We spent half a day in London on our way to Italy, and had just experienced one of the best days of my life touring Rome. The fateful day of my life altering tourist experience was Day 2 in Italy--the day dedicated to the Vatican and seeing the Sistine Chapel and St. Peter's Basilica.


We were staying in a Bed and Breakfast and that morning I had cereal, and the milk was packaged in paper, like soy milk here in the states. We were in the crowded, hot subway when it hit me, or rather that milk hit my intestines.


Rhett carried everything the entire trip, so I had him scrambling through the backpack for our chewable tums. After we got off the subway, I felt OK.
The line to the Vatican museums can be miles long, so we got in line blocks back. Then my bowels made an urgent cry to my brain to find a restroom. Unfortunately, finding a public restroom in Europe is nearly impossible. So when Rhett pointed out a line of obvious tourists coming out of a bar a block or two away, I sprinted away from him, racing to a toilet, with nothing but myself in jeans and a t-shirt. I got in line and as it inched forward, a kid (probably 10 years old) came running past everyone frantically to the front of the line. A bunch of these retired, southern accented American tourists started yelling at this little boy to get in the back of the line. The kid came running out just as fast as he went in, obviously lost and looking for his parents. After this, I thought there's no way anyone would let me ahead in line just because I'm sick if a lost kid received no sympathy.


Just as I thought this, my body revolted against me. I froze in place wide-eyed, sweating, salivating, and clinching every muscle in my body in the battle of me vs. my bowels. I hate to admit my defeat, but my GI tract won and there I was: alone, no money, no phone, a grown adult that just crapped her pants. At that point rather than burst into tears which initially seemed the best thing to do, I started planning what rational steps needed to be taken to get me out of this literal mess.


The line went down a half flight of stairs, disappearing into the bathroom. I consoled myself realizing all the public restrooms we'd used so far in Rome had a sink in each toilet stall. So I would be able to take care of myself having a private sink. Everything would be OK, I'll be able to get through this. After calming myself down, I finally made the descent into the bathroom to turn and find, to my horror, that there were three stalls and the row of sinks where everyone was waiting in line. As I began screaming "NOOOO!" in my head, my bowels similarly reacted with another diarrhea attack.


I couldn't believe it. I was 21 years old and soiled myself a second time. By this time, I'd been in line a while, granted to me it seemed like the length of my childhood, and the people around me began to talk about me, obviously assuming I was foreign and didn't speak English. Also, I was really sick and shaking trying to hold back the forces of nature on two occasions--plus I'm sure I WREAKED. "She looks sick poor thing." "I can't believe whoever she's with would leave her by herself, she looks like she's going to cry any minute." At this point I started getting mad because they could see I was sick, yet they didn't offer me to get ahead in line.


By the time it was finally my turn, I ran into the stall, taking my shoes off and my jeans at the door. From there, a comparable bathroom scene from Dumb & Dumber ensued. Many minutes and a roll of toilet paper later, I was putting on my jeans when someone knocked at the door. "Are we using this stall? Is anyone in here?" At this point I had to reveal my english speaking abilities, and told them I'd be out in a minute. I was putting on my shoes and flushed the toilet--but nothing happened. Are you kidding me??? At that point I was so overwhelmed, I decided I wasn't going to try to fix it and just run away. I finished putting on my shoes, and didn't know what to do with my soiled underwear. There wasn't a garbage in the stall, so I used half a roll of toilet paper and wrapped them up and shoved them in my back pocket. As a last thought before leaving, I tried once again, and luckily the toilet flushed. I stepped out, avoiding any eye contact as I washed my hands...multiple times. A lady asked: "Are you OK?" I muttered "yes" as I ran the heck out of there.


I burst onto the street to see the line had grown down around the corner out of my sight. The massive crowd, encompassing people from all around the world stretched for blocks in both directions. Here I was, having had the worst experience of my adult life, standing in the middle of Rome lost with my dirty underwear in my back pocket. I started walking up the street looking for my husband amid all the tourists. It seemed like I walked a full mile with no sight of him or anyone that had been around us when I left the line. Just as I was near panic, I saw him two blocks up in line...I had been gone a long time.


At this point Rhett had been really worried and was debating leaving all the progress made in line to go find me. He turned as I came strolling up and jokingly said: "If you've been shopping all this time I'm going to be mad." I was outraged! "Shopping? Shopping? I was doing anything but shopping!" I blurted, pulling out the toilet paper glob housing my underwear and shoving it at him. All the sudden my situation needed no explanation. Rhett's eyes got big and, fighting back laughter, he put his arm around my waist and put the underwear in a plastic sack I'd packed in the backpack.

Here is the bar/ cafe where it all took place

Later that day he said: "Jess, it's OK. Lots of people crap their pants." I turned to him in shock at his "consolation". "Rhett. I'm 21 years old. I haven't crapped my pants since I was 3. It's not OK and not everyone craps their pants." At this, the laughter he'd been trying to hold in for hours busted out. I cracked a half smile...the embarrassment was still too fresh to be funny.

And I suppose it could have been worse. Luckily they weren't charging for use of the restrooms like most other restrooms. Luckily I wore jeans, and luckily I knew early in the trip to never drink milk again while in Europe.

Later in the trip I was talking to my Mom on the phone and the first thing she wanted to know was: "How was the Sistine Chapel?" "Mom, I crapped my pants." "It was that good?"
I then explained how it wasn't the best day of my life, and the chapel was good, but not the source of my uncontrolled defecation.

I apologize for everyone that will think this too gross and inappropriate...I tried to warn you by foreshadowing the inevitable. And maybe this will only be a temporary post if too many come forward wishing they'd not read the account. In the mean time, I've come to laugh at it and only hope those who've had similar traumas on vacation will know they're not the only ones.