Thank You, Bern. No, Really, Thank You.

I love Bern. I love it not only for its quintessential Swiss-ness - its many clocks and squares and parks, or its trams and its swift, clean river, ringing the city like a natural moat. It is more than that. I actually owe the city of Bern and all of its tidy, tax paying citizens a big thank you. Let me explain:

The story begins, really, with our arrival in Switzerland, whence we began our eating of lots and lots of cheese, yogurt, meat and bread, and very little of anything else. It arcs toward a turning point in Lausanne, the night before heading on to Bern. We had gone out to a hip and lively bistro. I went with my standard rule: get something you can't easily recreate at home. Extra points if you aren't likely to find it at a restaurant in your area. So I ordered the Steak Tartare.

Now I have had tartare before - and it had been a small helping of uncooked, gently ground and mildly seasoned beef. However, at this bistro in Lausanne the portion was easily half a pound, and it was delicious. Despite having paid the equivalent of the GDP of Argentina, I realized I had gotten quite a good deal and I proceeded to eat it all, pairing it with a crisp local beer. I may have even had a (likely creamy) dessert, I am not sure. I do remember that I was as full as a tick by the time I was done.

The next morning we took the train to Bern, swung by the hotel and then hit the town. Lively streets traversing through an interesting mix of traditional and modern buildings, the avenues studded with different columns, symbolizing many different themes and stories, all uniquely Swiss, dotting intersections all over the place. Oh, yes, and clocks.

Large, intricately designed and entertaining to watch, the public clocks we saw in Bern were a delight. I stared and marveled at the precision craftsmanship and delicate artistry. Someone spent their life creating this, I would think to myself in wonder.

I didn't have a care in the world. I wasn't even hungry, what with my carnivorous gluttony the night before topped by a healthy breakfast of yogurt and cheese and bread and coffee. In fact, I was a little full. A tad bloated, maybe.

Travel more than a few times and you start to take the occasional indigestion in stride. Just go about your day. Keep walking, drink some water. It will pass, if I may. Some brisk walking, a couple of good farts and voila...!...off to the next meal.

So ignore it I did. Making our way through beautiful open markets. Admiring the mighty river from atop a hill. Lusting after all of the beautiful Swiss watches in the shop windows. Bern is a seriously pleasant place to be and I was taking it all in, my increasingly bloated abdomen be damned. 

We had made a day of it and that day was getting long in the tooth. It was time to stop at one of the prettiest and most ideally located (on a hill, overlooking the river) parks I have ever seen to rest and have a beer.

Yes, I know, at this point my belly was stretched as tight as a timpani and I really should have been attuned to that, but it was a perfect day in Bern and the perfect time to enjoy a beverage al fresco. Maybe the beer will help, I thought. A few cleansing belches and what not, right?

So we hung out at this park for at least an hour, maybe two, sitting in the shade, watching people, talking about whatever it is we talk about when we are travelling with dear old friends through interesting, picturesque places.

Last on our list before heading to the hotel was a walk through the famous Bear Park, where indeed they do have a couple of live bears. 

We got up and started walking. I began feeling a chill, up and down my spine. Strangely, nobody else did, not even Marissa, who is usually cold when the temperature drops below 75 degrees. I was also feeling a little soreness in my lower back. A dull ache. And I was still way bloated. Way. But on we went, while I kept my growing discomfort to myself.

We get to the Bear Park. There they are, just beyond the fence, a couple of large brown bears frolicking about as much as bears in captivity can. People from all over the world are snapping pictures. Just as I reach for my camera, the first wave hits...

Pow! An involuntary shudder, an icy cold sweat, and a cramp. A serious cramp, in my lower belly...

Some people are born with extra-sharp hearing, some are born with perfect pitch, others excellent eyesight. I was born with a keen ability to find a restroom in an emergency, and my talent was now desperately needed.

While my companions admired the bears, I made a beeline for a municipal-looking structure that is part of the park. It looked like a place where restrooms would be. It was not.

My vision blurring slightly and my heart rate picking up, I spied a much larger structure just across from me. I saw people coming and going and sitting at tables. A restaurant/reception center/pub or something like that. I don't really know and I never found out, because it didn't matter. Nothing in the world mattered, other than finding the bathroom, the lavatory, the WC, la toilette, los aseos, die Bedürfnisanstalt, bitte! 

Just as I entered I spied a group of young women emerging from a corridor, a good sign. I rushed over, using that quick but fakely calm walk - avoiding eye contact, breathing deep, jaw muscles clenched - that is the universally accepted walk of one who is in gastrointestinal distress but is doing their damnedest best to keep it together. You've seen that walk. Chances are you have walked that walk.

I got to the men's room - doors closing pants flying open backpack landing on a hook, all in a simultaneous blur of movement and dexterity that can only come during the most difficult of moments when adrenaline is at its peak and all senses are heightened - and proceeded to unleash the most unholy of incidents of my reasonably long life. I nearly sobbed with relief, my skin tingling in that unique way it tingles when, well, you know, when this kind of thing happens.

After a few moments, with my heart rate receding and breath returning to normal, I started to notice my surroundings. Immaculately clean green tile hung on the walls and lay on the floor, with an equally pristine strip of white tile ringing the room. Though small and windowless, the place was perfectly lit - no harsh, bright bulbs, no icky fluorescence, but also not dark and cave-like. This was a seriously pleasant bathroom. And I was all alone, God be praised.

It wasn't long before I was able to get back up, pull myself together, and wash my hands. Here came the coup de grâce: as I was drying my hands I detected the fresh scent of the herbaceous, probably organic soap I had just used, caressing my senses as the putrescent stench I had fouled this lovely space with was being silently whisked away by an incredibly efficient ventilation system. My toxic fury had been dealt with and all traces quietly removed.

It was as if nothing had even happened. A second sob of gratitude nearly jumped from my heart. 

I returned to my companions, now enjoying the coolness of the evening, and we walked to the bus stop to make our way home. I still felt a bit achy and my gut gave a few kicks here and there, but by the time we got to the Klee museum the next morning, I was right as rain.

Thank you, Bern, for preventing what could have been not only a horrible situation for me personally, but possibly a hazardous incident with international repercussions. I credit your civic sensibilities, love of efficiency, and all around good hygiene with saving my dignity and, thus, the rest of my trip. I owe you one, Bern. I owe you one.