Urinal Otearai

In the toilet reception room I see pie faces watching me. The mood is rotten here, the walls are brown, and the ruddy lamp lights aren't helping. The sink in my washbasin otearai is a flat steel affair inclining towards me, pattering cheaply. I wonder do they know I'm pissing on it? These people eyeing me so intently beyond the aluminum partition. In any case, when did the act of relieving oneself become such drawn out process as to necessitate a drawing room?   

The bathroom I'm describing is here:     X-------------------------

the observers are here:                                                           O                O  o O                     O o         O

Whole families! Through tinny intercom I hear read in spanish: Ojala que las personas de este ciudad puedan usar los lavatorios regularmente para llavar los manos muchos tiempos durante el dia. Montener su salud! 

Outside the vestibule lies the station great room, where a ticket agent sits in a marble/glass box like a centralized purveyor of great lands, the lone great rock to watch over the plains.