My brief stint in someone else’s shower

In a shower in Munich, stuck in a beer-fueled post-Oktoberfest daze, the shower water went from BP-communal-shower hot to arctic-tundra cold in a matter of seconds. So, naturally, I decided to flee the scene. And by flee the scene, I mean pause the Tom Odell song I’d been playing on repeat (it’s called “Black Friday,” you’d like it); grab the grungy gray towel our Airbnb host graciously provided and wrap myself in it; then stand shivering in that tiny German hallway, wondering if maybe I’ll shiver in a tiny German hallway ever again (probably not).

And all the while I waited for the shower water to heat up again, watching for steam to appear on the mirror — my cue to re-enter that hallowed space — I chatted with two friends who had just woken up. And for a moment, I considered the ridiculous prospect of being cold and wet with unwashed conditioner still in my hair in a foreign country where I really only know how to say “danke,” (which means “thank you”) and “mehr bier” (which loosely translates to “more beer”). 

But in that German hallway, I somehow felt at ease, as my friends and I spoke in hushed voices, recounting the treacherous walk to the train station from the Hofbräu beer tent, the bruises acquired when Fife and I took a tumble and landed face-down on the pavement, and, my personal favorite, the creepy lederhosen-clad men who clapped when we landed face-down on the pavement. 

So while we chuckled in our collective post-Oktoberfest daze, I noticed the shower steam appear on the mirror, which is when I excused myself to continue the better half of my morning ritual, complete with hot water and more Tom Odell songs. And I wish I could tell you I felt comfortable in that badezimmer (bathroom) that seriously lacked a badematte (bath mat), but I wasn’t. 

Because the truth is, sometimes I just want to crawl out of my skin. 

Before I left for Italy, my dad and I watched an episode of “Rainn Wilson and the Geography of Bliss,” as in the travel docuseries on Peacock hosted by the actor who played Dwight Schrute. And somewhere couched between the scenes of Rainn skateboarding and eating flaky pastries, a Bulgarian woman said something that I’ll never forget: “Happiness is dancing in someone else’s shower.”

That morning in Munich, I was literally in someone else’s shower, but I wasn’t dancing. In fact, I was probably stressing about the fact that the day prior I definitely got scammed at that ATM where I lost 60 euros in two minutes, and I was definitely overthinking every embarrassing moment I’ve ever had in the history of my life.

Admittedly, I wasn’t dancing in someone else’s shower at that moment. I couldn’t even dance in my own shower. I felt trapped within myself, consumed with worries greater than the ATM and every embarrassing moment I’ve ever had in the history of my life. I was mostly worried that perhaps everyone would find out the truth about me: That I’m not always that funny, I have dumb moments and I can be extremely uncool. That sometimes I’m confrontational, avoidant and scared to ruin things, so I just run away. 

Things got better for me that day, I promise. And the second I put on my dirndl, I quite literally felt all of those aforementioned worries dissipate (like perhaps every time a girl puts on an overpriced German costume at Oktoberfest, an angel gets its wings). But really, I tried my hardest to dance in the shower that is Munich for the remainder of my stay, and I grew to really like it (well, the little I saw of it outside of the Hofbräu beer tent). 

And when I returned to Italy after my 16-hour stint on the overnight Flixbus, I realized that even in Rome, I still am in someone else’s shower (only this shower is becoming a lot more familiar). 

For example, the bartenders at Camden Town don’t card me anymore, and the tourist trap restaurant server by the villa waves to me every time I make the trek to Carrefour in a baggy t-shirt the morning after a night out. And the street sellers by the Colosseum have stopped shoving selfie sticks in my face (perhaps my purposeful walking and scowl deters them).

And between the moments of beauty (cheap wine, not getting carded at Camden Town) and the moments of more beauty (scenic walks to class, selfie stick street sellers leaving me alone), there are also the times I’m standing in someone else’s shower, and it’s really really cold, like some second Ice Age, and I don’t know where to turn or who to turn to or which space to colonize and make my own personal Grotto for a few tender moments before returning to the public sphere (the villa kitchen).

But there are also times when it’s not so cold anymore, and I just dance. And I dance. And I dance. And I dance in someone else’s shower, and the water's not BP-communal-shower hot, but maybe someday we'll get there.

Kate Casper (aka, Casper, Underdog or Jasmine) is from Northern Virginia, currently residing in Rome. She strives to be the best waste of your time. You can contact her at kcasper@nd.edu.