Whenever I travel, one of my prime concerns is how to locate a “good” toilet. This hasn’t always been as easy as you might think, because the “American Standard” toilet is just that: the American standard. In many other parts of the world the porcelain throne is still a yet to be achieved ideal. (To give you an idea of how much of an ideal, picture this: we once went to a bar in Chang Mai, Thailand where, in the spot most people reserve for pictures of Jesus, or the Buddha, or Elvis, there was instead a life-size photo of an American Standard toilet, complete with votive candles and floral offerings.)
It’s not that I’m terribly squeamish about such things (when you gotta go, you gotta go)—it’s just that when you’re already dealing with a different culture and their different bathroom habits, adding a language barrier into the mix can cause things to quickly get awkward. Forget peeing in the bidet: there have been times when the room to which I was directed to was so dark and fetid, the hole in the ground so small, and the assortment of random objects thrown into the corner so eclectic that I was seventy percent sure I was probably peeing (or worse) in the mop closet. But what could I have done? Like I said: when you gotta go, you gotta go.
Still, despite all of my different encounters with toilets in various parts of the world, I never thought that the place I would have the strangest, and the most awkward bathroom experience ever, would be in Paris, France.
I should have known what I was in for when Clementine, who had gone in ahead of me, came out with a horrified look on on her face and said, “These people are so weird,” but by that point I was so used to hearing that from her on a regular basis that I didn’t give it much thought. After all: this was France. How weird could it really be?
As it turns out: REALLY weird.
Because, the thing is, this wasn’t just a bathroom—it was a bathroom store. Everything, including the model you eventually got to use, had a price tag on it. And when I say eventually, I mean eventually, because before you even got close to their number one (and two) seller, you first had to pass racks and racks of “specialty” toilet paper: Sudoku TP, crossword TP, flowered TP, and TP in every color of the rainbow, including black. (If you’re old, like me, you probably remember when this was the fad in the US as well—colored toilet paper to match your colored toilet, sink, and tub. Well, apparently, like roller-blading and Jerry Lewis, in France it never went out of style.)
And yet, even though all that fancy toilet paper provided dozens of chances for “customers” to stop and shop, that wasn’t what was causing the hold up. No, the real slow down—the “blockage,” as it were—was the guy in charge: you couldn’t just grab a stall when it came open; you had to wait for the “Maitre d’” of toilets to personally personally escort you to your “seat.” And of course, like any good French maitre d’, he liked to make you wait.
By the time I was finally out of there I was of the same opinion as Clementine: these people were really weird. It was only later, upon reflection, that I considered whether or not I had been the victim of some sort of a hoax. After all, we were right next to the Louvre—maybe the whole thing was just some kind of performance art.
All I know is that if that visit ever shows up on youtube I want my euro back.