In May, my niece Charlotte decided she’d rather have her baby in Oregon at her mom’s place than NYC, where she lived with her husband, Ryan. With planes, trains, and buses ruled out, that left driving.
Forty-two hours in a car (at least Ryan would be behind the wheel) while almost eight months pregnant; yes, insanity runs in our family.
Char tapped me for travel-planning help. I suggested she and Ryan rent an RV or pull a travel trailer. Unfortunately, it was soon evident they had come late to the exodus from NYC. Despite calling dealers in three states, I could find neither RV nor travel trailer for them to rent.
Ryan and Char opted for hotels over Airbnbs and I went to work: I rented a reliable car, mapped the ideal route, obtained roadside assistance coverage, and booked places to stay that appeared to be following recommended sanitation guidelines and enforcing mask-wearing.
Char called after I emailed her the details. “Thank you so much! There’s just one problem: What about going to the bathroom?” She (understandably) wanted to avoid exposing her expecting self to the risks of public bathrooms, including hand dryers and anti-maskers.
“Pack toilet paper and find a bush,” I suggested.
“Do you know how often you have to go—and how hard it is to squat—when there’s a cantaloupe-sized fetus sitting on your bladder? My child is not starting life with a mother who’s been arrested for falling over while urinating in public.”
After a few minutes on Google, I had another idea: a portable toilet.
Portable toilets of the Porta-Potty variety are my friends. There’s nothing like spotting that row of turquoise when you’ve been pedaling up the Rockies for the past three hours.
But the one I was looking for had to be a lot smaller. After researching various models, I settled on (no pun intended) the Luggable Loo.
I chose it over models that resembled folding chairs, which looked too tippy for the pregnant Char.
And I hoped the fact the Luggable Loo had a seat cover and sides would mean Char would see it more like a bathroom fixture and less like, well, a bucket.
Of course, any semblance of refinement is obviated by the fact you’re meant to line the bucket commode with the human version of a dog-poop bag; at least this seemed more sanitary than the bagless options.
And the price ($40 for the toilet, $17 for twenty bags) was a reasonable amount to spend on something I figured would be donated or tossed as soon as Char and Ryan arrived in Oregon.
I wasn’t finished, though; I still had the “in public” problem. That one was solved by the privacy tent.
There were cheaper versions ($29), but the reviews noted they tended to be too short, had no floors, and were difficult to assemble. (And what’s with the color? I thought the point of these things was to be discreet.)
I ultimately went with the slightly pricier Stansport Pop-Up Privacy Shelter ($53) because it looked better made, was roomier, and didn’t seem to require an engineering degree to use (even though Ryan is, in fact, an engineer). I figured the poor guy would be putting it up and taking it down so many times, I wanted it to be as easy as possible.
After the gear arrived in NYC, Char reported the tent was indeed roomy: she and six-foot-one Ryan could fit inside together.
How did the Luggable Loo and Stansport tent perform? Char and Ryan’s first stop was somewhere in rural Pennsylvania. Ryan set up the tent, put the lined loo, a roll of toilet paper, and disinfecting wipes inside, and poof!—Char had a private bathroom in the middle of nowhere.
Char said everything worked great. The loo didn’t wobble when sat on and the lining bag worked like a many-layered giant Ziplock, complete with a powder that eliminated odor. The bag folded over the edge of the bucket and was sealed off by the seat, so there was no worry about coming into contact with any mess. After the deed was done, Char sealed up the bag and threw it away, leaving a clean bucket ready for the next bag.
Five days and forty-two bathroom stops later, Char and Ryan crossed the Oregon state line. Healthy baby Amelia arrived six weeks later.
Twist’s Take: Want to avoid public restrooms on your next road trip? Pack a portable loo, liner bags, and privacy tent.
