It had been a long day traveling to and from the beach town of Pesaro, and I was more than ready to wash the grimy mixture of rain, sweat, and sunscreen off of my skin. After a refreshing shower, I wrapped myself in a towel, unlocked the door, pulled on the handle and . . .  nothing.

I tried again, this time pressing harder on button at the top of the handle, hoping to disengage the lock and free myself from what had suddenly gone from a relaxing to a panicked situation. Pain shot through both of my hands and I suffered from a temporary neck strain, but that door would not budge.

Looking around, I realized that three of the walls surrounding me were covered completely in tiles, the ceiling provided a solid barrier of cement and even the door was an inch or two of thick wood.

It slowly dawned on me that my only hope was to call for help. The trouble was, I had no idea how to say “help” in Italian. In fact, I could not think of one word that would help describe my situation to a potential savior. Twice, I heard footsteps on the bathroom floor, but the embarrassment of my situation prevented me from alerting them to my captivity.

My panicked state, I realized, was mostly due to the fact that I did not know how to explain myself. How could I possibly communicate this to someone?

I contemplated this question in between attempts to pry the door from its current state. At some point, I changed back into the dirty clothes I had worn earlier that day.

After what seemed like hours, I heard the bathroom door open and realized that this was my chance. If I wanted to be free, I would have to face the humiliation.

I knocked on the door and heard a male voice respond. After a harried attempt to explain my predicament, in which we established that I was both stuck in the shower and an American, my faceless hero tried the door handle, but to no avail. I heard him walk away and say a few words, followed by a chorus of giggling.

“The silly American is stuck in the shower,” was all I could imagine he had said. Although by this point, I really didn’t care. I just wanted out.

Within in minutes, the boy was back and, after wiggling his key in the lock a few times, the door slowly opened.

“Grazie!” was all I could say to express my gratitude. The boy simply smiled, gave a small wave, and walked away.

I may never see my knight in shining armor again, and I will be sure to avoid that particular shower from now on. But just in case, I headed straight to my room to learn the Italian phrase,  Help, I’m stuck in the shower.