I’m not sure you should even try to picture this, but the restroom had tiny stalls and old hinged, wooden doors with missing or nonexistent fasteners or locks. I squeezed inside, trying to hold the door closed while reconfiguring for what was now a critical need. It would have been a challenge empty-handed and in a bathing suit, but I was wearing belted khaki slacks with a blouse and jacket. I had a big leather handbag slung over one shoulder, a canvas backpack full of stuff and that humongous radio clipped securely (I thought) to my belt. Yanking, sweating, twisting and cursing, I finally got untangled and, pardon the expression, “in position,” only to hear an ominous crash and splash. Yeah, there went the taxpayers’ radio into the bowels of the commode, which was, blessedly, of the normal, flushable, water-filled variety. So I gritted my teeth and fished it out, hoping against hope that it still worked, which, of course, it didn’t.