Search through those travel books all you want, but they never tell you what you really need to know. Where can I get a taco? Check. Where can I rent a car? Yup. Will every freakin' person in Turkey try to sell me stuff? Reply hazy; try again.

You buy your tickets with blithe ignorance, and minutes after you land you discover the truth. Yes, the Bahamas are picturesque. The weather is great, the beaches are pretty. But the residents are all poor and black, and by stark contrast you're pretty much rich and white. The first day you'll feel guilty having an entire race at your beck and call. You'll feel like you've slunk back in time to the slave era. You're friendly; you're apologetic. By the end of your trip, though, you'll be saying stuff like, "Sam, you've done fine work as my manservant, but if you continue to make untoward advances toward the scullery maid you'll soon feel the wrath of my cane."

As a public service, I'll furnish some vital information that guidebooks on Greece just happen to omit. YOU'RE NOT SUPPOSED TO FLUSH TOILET PAPER DOWN THE TOILET.

Now, I can see the questions forming in your brain. If you can't put it down the toilet, where else can it go? And farther down the line: why can't you put toilet paper in the toilet? Isn't it made for that?

I asked myself these questions, and finally assumed I got it wrong. "Surely they mean tampons," I told myself. "They must mean paper towels." But I found signs in every bathroom, and eventually one spelled it out in graphic detail. DON'T PUT TOILET PAPER IN THE TOILET. It actually offered details of how one managed this.

You use the toilet paper like you normally do. Instead of dropping it when you're finished, though, you take it out, fold it into a little square, and put it in the trash can.

I had two problems with this. One, you know that saying about what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas? I feel the same way about anything in the toilet. And two, IN A TRASH CAN? Are you freakin' kidding me? I spend four thousand dollars a year on potpourri. I've got little bamboo wands that diffuse aromatic liquids; I've got oils I dab onto lightbulbs. Isn't a bucket full of poo-dabbed tissues pretty much the opposite of that?

So call me crazy, call me irresponsible, but I refused. I'm very sorry if I ruined Greece's sewage system. Over seven days, I flushed enough tissue to remove Cher's makeup. Every day I expected the hotel maid to accost me and scream, "VERE ARE DA POO TISSUES IN YOUR TRASH CAN?" But she never did. And for that I'm grateful. I'm thankful. I'm eternally indebted to her.

In fact, if she wants to date my manservant, I'll give it some serious thought.