Twice now, I’ve been an American on vacation in a foreign country, and I’ve gotten tickled to the point of uncontrollable laughter … over something ridiculously uncouth.
Not repping my country well, to say the least.
Every country has its own customs. Many of the unfamiliar ways of those “fawr-uh-ners” turn out to be quite nice.
For example, in Japan, when you ride the subway or train, it’s quiet. If people have their phones out, they’re wearing headphones so as to not inflict their noise on their fellow travelers. If two people want to talk, they hold their heads close together and their voices are low.
I got so used to this unexpected pleasure that on one trip, when a man struggled to open a snack item wrapped in plastic, the extended crinkling sound filling the car as he fought with it irked me so badly, I had to restrain myself from leaping out of my seat and snatching it from his hands.
But one evening, riding the subway back to my friend Ronda’s house, I began a story, telling it in halting segments, layering on each humorous antic one at a time. Think of the famous Carol Burnett show skit where Tim Conway tells the story about the Siamese twin elephants.
It was the classic “don’t laugh in church” scenario, only it was “don’t laugh on the Japanese subway.”
I hadn’t intended to draw the story out that way, but when Ronda started snuffling, her laughter egged me on. The tale came out one bit at a time, until both of us were hee-hawing so hard, tears streamed down our faces. While telling the story, I spoke so low my husband, who stood holding on to a pole across the aisle from us, had no idea why we were cracking up, but we couldn’t contain the sound of our hilarity. Finally, Ronda gasped, “No more. No more.”
People shot dark looks our way, which only made things worse. We, quite obviously, were not Japanese. I wonder what they thought of us.
A second time happened in France. My husband and I accompanied five family members to St. Gervais for a winter trip to see Mont Blanc. One special event was a visit to a thermal spa called Les Thermes. The inside walls were painted black or charcoal, all dark and quiet, with small LED lights creating displays on tables and recessed lighting gleaming down from black ceilings.
Very mindful. Very demure.
Everyone there seemed to know exactly what to do and where to go next. We stumbled around like country bumpkins. After soaking in a warm communal bath, we moved to a heated, tiled, bleacher-type area where people reclined, silently soaking in the heat. After a few moments of that, we were like, “Hmm. What’s next?” So we followed some folks into the sauna area. The slippers piled up at the door gave us the hint we were to enter barefoot. They even provided a wooden rack to hold your glasses. Ooh, la, la. Every detail considered. Every solution provided.
We entered the sauna. I blinked, attempting to focus through the steam wafting in the air like our own personal cloud. A couple sat on one side, the woman lying with her head in her partner’s lap. Another man leaned against the wall opposite them. The three of us moved to the far wall to take a seat.
There was a perfect combination of conditions: steamy, hot air practically dripping with condensation; our wet skin; and soggy seats of our bathing suits, freshly drenched from our recent dip in the warm bath. Put them all together, and we each—one after the other, three in a row—created the perfect fart noise when we plopped onto the tiled bench lining the wall.
We gave each other wide-eyed looks and bit back our laughter. This wasn’t a laughing atmosphere. Shhh. Enjoy the relaxation.
The instructions said to sit in the steam for five minutes, then step outside of the room to use the showers to rinse. Step back in and repeat two more times.
Forewarned by experience about the farting phenomenon, we each tried different techniques when we resumed our seats. Lower yourself onto your right hip and roll your buttocks on the bench. Perch your tailbone on the very edge and slide back. Sit with your legs slightly wide to avoid creating the “bowl” shape formed by thighs and buttocks. We had varying levels of success. Giggles threatened.
Then a fourth member of our family joined us. Yanked the door open, letting in a swirl of cool(er) air, stumbled through the foggy air, then plopped straight down. BRAAAP.
Maybe if it’d happened to only one of us, we’d have been able to contain ourselves. But all four of us were caught by the noise. None of the French people seemed plagued by loutish behavior. One of us giggled, then two, then it was Katy, bar the door.
Y’all, the lady lying with her head in her partner’s lap got up, and they left. Not because they were done. No. They went into the other sauna. Right in front of us. Didn’t even try to hide it. We laughed even harder.
In Texas, people are friendly. We smile at each other in our stores, we do the one-finger salute when we pass each other on the road (pointer finger, just to be clear), and we chat with strangers while we wait in line. We touch when we talk. We hug when we leave. I feel like my life is spent in a happy, pleasant, humor-filled way.
Not so mindful. Not that demure. But fun.
I’m sorry we disturbed the couple in the sauna. I thought of them when we moved to the outside pools (which were heated, but uncovered in the outdoor, 32° weather). I could envision one of us running, leaping into the water doing a cannonball, yelling “Yeehaw!” (We didn’t do that, but the thought crossed my mind.) I’m sure they find humor in other places in their lives. But I enjoy laughing. And laughter comes easily to me.
Jesus told us in the book of John, “The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy; I came that they may have life, and have it abundantly.” I bet Jesus laughed a lot. I think he would’ve been fun to hang out with.
Look for ways to have fun, to enjoy each other, to relax with laughter.
That night in our AirBnB, we pulled out an original version of Trivial Pursuit we found on a shelf. I lifted the lid and wiggled it to get it off, and as it slid away, the perfect fart noise came out. BRAAP. We laughed all over again, so hard and so long that my sides ached. I swear it added five years to my life.
However you do it, spend your life with humor and fun. As my friend Greg Kata on TikTok says, “Find your joy.”
I finished my contemporary rockstar romance. Now I stand at a crossroads. Do I try to get an agent who will help me get into one of the largest “Big Five” publishing houses or do I go indie, and publish everything myself? Getting into the big houses requires an agent, which I don’t have. So I’m doing my version of Gideon’s fleece test in the Bible. I’ve picked three agents. Between now and April 12, I’ll see if any of the three are interested in representing me. If one offers to sign me, I’ll see how the traditional route goes. If none do, beginning April 13, I’m taking the steps to self-publish. I know how to format books and I’m very familiar with uploading to KDP. All I’ll need is a friend to give one last edit to the manuscript, and to find a book cover designer. So, I’m waiting on God to send me my sign. And I’m fine with whichever way he sends me. So stay tuned to see what happens with Made for More.
If you’ve decided to go the indie route, or perhaps you’re preparing a novella or short story as a lead magnet, you’ll need to know how to format your book. A friend recently asked me how to set up her margins to change her manuscript from the typical page size in Word to a smaller 6 x 9 for publishing. Here is a short video explaining how that works.
