Okay, I may be dancing around a touchy subject here, because, to be honest, toilet brush use is not a widely discussed topic in North America. It could be that I am a complete neanderthal with subpar public washroom etiquette, but in my 35 years of North-American bathroom frequenting, toilet brush use is reserved for the following distinct people groups:

1) the owner of the toilet; and,
2) someone paid by the owner of the toilet.

A German grocery store checkout is pretty much what I imagine tripping on acid would be like. (Yes. Imagine. I once graffitied the walls in the Honour Society room at my high school, and then went directly to the principal's office to hand myself in. Do you really think I could pull off an acid trip?) It's an overly emotional experience with bright lights and a lot of colours and shapes whizzing by, time feels like it's moving exponentially fast, at some point I have to give someone some money, a tight friendship is formed with anyone who makes it through with me and there's a feeling of euphoria but in the end I feel sweaty, dizzy and nauseous.

I went camping this weekend for the first time in Germany. Correction. I went “camping” this weekend. In Germany, camping is camping by name only.

Let me do an imaginary poll of imaginary Canadians. Okay, the results are in. According the the imaginary Canadians I imagined I spoke with, the following are the top 10 things they associate with the word ‘camping’: campfire, backwoods, unplugging, s’mores, lighting stuff on fire, hot dogs, quiet, peeing behind a tree, whittling and a general acceptance of low personal hygiene standards for a given period.

I live a few blocks away from this lovely old Lutheran church, built in 1906. And one street away from another beautiful Catholic church, also more than a century old. Sometimes I forget that I am surrounded by all this inspiring history and architecture and culture.