As mentioned, this part of the story probably falls under the "Too Much Information" category, but I've got to tell it. It was pretty miserable at the time, but is pretty darned funny (at least from where I sit) now. And if you can't laugh at yourself, you can you laugh at?
Just about everyone that knows me well knows that I'm exactly like the Paul Finch character in the first "American Pie" movie when it comes to moving the bowels in public restrooms. Yep, I'm a real life Shit Break. I will endure almost anything to avoid having to take a grumpy in a public restroom. I hate it, and in fact - before the layover in Frankfurt - I could count on one hand and not use all the fingers the number of times in my entire life that I had done it. And I had never, ever done it in a restroom on some sort of transportation other than a ship (i.e. bus, airplane, etc.) - and then only in my private cabin.
Well, that all changed on the morning of Tuesday November 9, 2010. I don't know what happened or what I ate or could have done that got my gut in the all-out revolt it staged that morning, but revolt it did. It might have been the burger at the Houston airport before we left. Heck, it could've even been the Mexican food the night before departure, though I purposely kept it mild due to the upcoming trip - I know my gut and try to respect it. It could've even been something funky about the food on the airplane. It might've even been the beginnings of the cold that hit me in Barcelona. Whatever it was, it did a number on my system. It was a full overload with an imminent core breach. I'd started feeling a little gassy about 2 hours before we landed, but I didn't think much of it because, well, I'm a little gassy a lot of the time anyway. I didn't let any out on the plane, though, for those that might be wondering. I do have a little couth sometimes. Anyway, after landing (and getting rid of Vladimir the crazy Ukrainian) we made it into a big commons/shopping/food court area somewhere around Terminal B at Frankfurt. We found a café and had just sat down there for a cup of coffee - probably not the best thing to put on top of an upset gut... - when the first wave hit. I tried to fight it off, but to no avail. As the next aftershock waves kept coming, I knew there was absolutely no way I would be able to make it another 6 or 7 hours until we got to the hotel in Barcelona. I was panicking!!! "No, not in this busy airport!!" was the thought running through my head. Mom and dad know about my aversion to public restrooms, but it was also visibly evident that I was having an "issue." My face was contorted and flushed, and I was sweating like a whore in church. I'm telling you, it was bad! They finally encouraged me enough to give it a whirl. So I walked - very carefully - over to and into the restroom, dreading what was coming the whole way. I get there, and none of the stalls were free, and I had a "pressing issue" to attend to. Every one of them was occupied, and there was a LOT of traffic in and out of the bathroom. I knew this wasn't going to be a quiet affair, either. By that time, the first attack wave was passing, and I thought, "Whew! Maybe I dodged a bullet." So I walked back to the café - which wasn't anywhere close to the restroom, by the way - and sat back down to my coffee.
About half way through my cup of excellent German-style coffee, maybe 10 minutes later, the second wave hit me. With reinforcements. It was way worse than the first assault, and I knew then that it didn't matter if the Pope was in the next stall, there was no delaying or avoiding the Blitzkrieg against the porcelain. I had to shit like a mule - and soon. Again, I made my way very carefully back to the restroom, and was in luck when someone vacated a stall. I'll spare the gory details, but suffice it to say that I'm really glad the toilet flushing noise was as loud as it was - it helped mask some of the explosion. It was also comforting to know that the stall walls were floor-to-ceiling, which afforded a lot more privacy - and noise insulation - than the stalls we're used to here in the States. I allowed ample time for any aftershocks (and there were several), but mainly to make sure everyone at the urinals and the adjacent stalls had cycled out before making my way - in hoped anonymity - to the sinks and out of the restroom.
At that point, I was feeling so relieved as I returned to the café to try to finish my coffee. Mom and dad were laughing at me, as the expression on my face must have implied that a giant load had been lifted - or, in this case, dropped. I thought I was in good shape, and I was for maybe 15 minutes. That's when the next wave hit. I guess my body went, "Oh, so you sucked it up and went in a public restroom, huh? Here, have some more!" Long (and painful) story short, I went five more times during the layover in Frankfurt, and in three separate restrooms as we made our way to the Barcelona departure gate. And the final wave hit me as we were in the air between Frankfurt and Barcelona. I'm surprised I didn't cause a loss of cabin pressure with the flushing. When we got off the plane, mom (who was sitting several rows in front of me, but we were all near the rear of the aircraft) said, "Was that you with the three courtesy flushes a while back?"
Thanks mom… There went all the confidence I'd developed about using a public restroom. 
Even after these unfortunate events, I still believe that I will be averse to the whole public restroom thing. But now I know that, in the direst of emergencies, many things are possible. 
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