When slumming in NYC yesterday, I stopped into a grubby-but-cool performance place on Bowery called, appropriately, the Bowery Poetry Club. After buying the obligatory tourist-tshirt (which I discovered, upon unfolding at home, smelled strongly (and not surprisingly) of cigarette smoke), I availed myself of the welcoming invitation on a hand-written sign: "Pee downstairs" (complete with wayfinding arrow).
Good thing the place was so small, and that I only had 2 doors to choose from, because the sign on the ladies room (if you can call it that) door just read "Emily." (don't ask- I have no clue)
I post these photos of the inside of the bathroom only because it strikes me that, when I was in there, I was actually really pleased to have found a bathroom with actual flushing toilet, no huge line (Starbucks SUX), that could actually fit me AND my purse (see Crif Dogs pottie). It didn't really strike me how gnarly the place looked until I got home and saw these photos. GROSS!