I went to the UK as a just turned seventeen-year-old young woman in 1984, the summer before my senior year in high school. It was a school sponsored trip; a hybrid culture meets teaching vacay with my World History teacher as the guide. We had many meetings on what to expect during this 21-day multi country journey. Great Britain was first on the list. “Don’t think it will be a breeze in England,” I recall Linda Massey telling us. “They are not easy to understand, even though English is their mother tongue.” Ewww. Tongues. My seventeen-year-old brain wasn’t all that sophisticated. We practiced, relentlessly, how to ask for a restroom in French, Italian, and German. Then, we addressed the UK. “They don’t say bathroom or restroom. In fact, if you ask for a restroom in England, they’ll direct you to a park bench…to rest. You’ll have to ask for the WC. That stands for water closet. That’s what the Brits call a bathroom.” Imagine my shock and horror when I asked a young woman with a beyond thick Leicester accent – this is pronounced Lester, by the way, leading me to believe these must be the people who named Worcestershire sauce – where the closest water closet was, only for her to say a lot of mish mash words at the speed of light that included something called a loo. Me to my friend Tonya, “What’s a loo?” Tonya’s response did not aid in my discovery. “Like, skip to my Lou my darlin?” I did not think that was the case. Loo is, as we probably all know now, thanks to The Crown, short for lavatory. That makes as much sense as finding out Dick is short for Richard. I think about that moment often. They don’t say their Fs, these Leicester folks. And, their words pop out so fast, all staccatoed with rounded Os and lots of Oys. But, loo, lavatory, WC, water closet, bathroom, restroom… where did we get all these room names? Down the rabbit hole we go. And, we’re going fast. We only have 600 more words at our disposal. Insert wink face emoji.