I had made an executive decision. I would go to the bathroom before I took my seat. Why squirm, even for an hour? The crowds would only get worse, I figured, and the next act was not going to go on for fifteen minutes.

This was my first trip to the Hyde Park Jazz Festival. It had become a south side tradition for the last four years. Before the neighborhood became a tourist destination for people seeking anything Obama, this part of the city was known as an intellectual and cultural Mecca, a very United Colors of Benetton progressive sort of neighborhood and home of The University of Chicago. I was at the assembly hall at the International House, one of many venues the U of C offered for the occasion. The musical menu for the festival featured an abundance of local talent; 150 musicians at 15 venues over twelve hours. I knew the pianist who was playing at 3:00 and trusted I would find my way to two or three other sets before heading back home to the other side of town.

It was an old-fashioned, institutional sort of women’s lounge. You had to walk down a short flight of marble stairs and turn in to a room with about five stalls, including one extra wide one for handicapped access. None of the latches on the stall doors seemed to work very well. The hot air hand dryer only worked intermittently and there was more pink, goopy soap pooled up on the ancient sink counter than in the dispenser. There was a sign near the mirror, announcing something akin to a pledge to keep the premises clean.

Hallelujah, none of the stalls were occupied. I slipped into the middle one, seemingly the cleanest, and started the hanging ritual, first draping my purse strap then my cotton hoodie over the hook on the inside of the door, hoping that it would hold up for the duration of my visit. I heard a few other women enter nearby stalls by the time I was pulling down my jeans.

“Excuse, me,” I heard a meek voice pipe out to the person in the stall next to hers. “There doesn’t seem to be any toilet paper here.”

For a second, I went into a panic. I had my pants bunched up around my knees and was half sitting and half squatting over an ancient University of Chicago toilet (and I didn’t care what their posted pledge about cleanliness said, I was not about to sit squarely on the throne). Then I found myself moving into an almost Socratic mode of self-inquiry. Did I forget to check for TP? Relief spilled over me quickly as I looked to my left. There was TP aplenty behind door number three.

Ah, I thought to myself, as I like to do, time to be grateful. Still in my sitting squat pose, I considered my good fortune. I had plenty of toilet paper waiting in readiness by my side. Even better, I was not at an outdoor venue where I would have had to use a port-a-potty. I may even have had some Kleenex balled up in my purse….Then I heard a different voice.

“Yes, I have some here,” the woman from two stalls down called back. “I’ll pass it to you under the wall.”

Wow. Is this a miracle or something? After the hand-off must have happened, I heard a quiet and grateful thank you. I was still contemplating the simple joy of toilet paper when I walked to the sink to wash my hands. I was struck by another observation. It was great that there was someone on the other side of the stall wall who was able to provide exactly what was needed. Nine times out of ten, when you ask for something, you can get it.

Remembering to ask is no small thing.