Let’s talk about toilets. Yes, that’s how I open any conversation at a dinner party.
When I hit upon this subject as being a great topic for this week’s column, friends gave me looks indicating they weren’t so sure. That’s when I knew I was on the right track.
The people who are really keen to get into a chat about loos, heads, W.C.s and bogs are few and far between. “Chain-pull high tanks vs. pressure-assisted models… I could discuss it all night; don’t get me started!”
This week’s theme came to me when I recalled walking into a restaurant’s restrooms and being faced with the garbage bin overflowing with discarded hand towels, tanks that had seen better days, and a particular flush handle clinging to the side of its toilet like a mountaineer in distress. I felt like someone had peeled back the curtain to reveal that not only was the Great and Powerful Oz anything but a wizard; he was also feeling like a bit of a forgotten dirty secret. We definitely weren’t in Kansas anymore.
When I was younger, I wasn’t quite as particular. I accepted that if I patronised certain popular clubs on their busiest nights, carrying my own toilet paper might be a good idea. Keeping the pounds off also wasn’t just about my health; I couldn’t afford to get wedged in a narrow stall, forcing management to activate the fire department wielding its Jaws of Life.
One hotspot’s facilities immediately spring to mind as a good example. Three stalls were crammed into only enough width for two, and their doors swung inwards, hitting the bowls with a smack. If you’ve ever parked your car really close to another and tried to squeeze out of the driver’s door, that’s what it was like getting into one of those corrals, each and every time. A working lock – preventing another person from unknowingly interrupting your solitude – was luxury, and just to add a bit of extra danger to the dance, there was a lit scented candle on the top of every tank. Throwing your hair back once your derriere was planted on the throne would, at best, risk it being covered in wax and, at worst, turn you into the Wicker Man. I guess there was water nearby to douse the fire; they’d thought it through.
At least the above experiences were all on my home turf. When it comes to travelling to other countries, one can encounter fascinating traditions, extraordinary cultures, and interesting lavatory options.
When bestie Lynne and I were driving around Europe for a few weeks, we came across every level of comfort station imaginable. (I have to say, Googling ‘toilet’ and ‘thesaurus’ brings up a heady list of terms.) We were green as the grass (the rental car insurance people saw us coming) and despite planning to fly by the seat of our pants, were rarely separated from our catalogue of Best Western hotels. When we stuck to the highways, or autoroutes, there were well-appointed rest stops at regular intervals, but when we drove off the beaten path, there were less reliable offerings. On one particular night, on a dark road from Marseille to Nice, we had to answer nature’s call. What appeared on the side of the road was a stone building with one hanging light inside and a hole in the ground. Surely this had to be for cattle that were a bit uppity and eschewed open defecation in a field over some privacy?
Nope.
I won’t get into the gory details, but let’s just say that one of us was more desperate to relieve themselves than the other when faced with that choice.
Another sight more prevalent in Europe than the US and Canada is the pay toilet. I was well-familiar with such facilities in the UK when I was a child, but I really didn’t think they existed any longer, y’know, after the last of the ancient Romans had passed on. Joe Lycett, one of my favourite comedians, did a bit about having to pay for the privilege in a British train station. I had a similar experience in Paris about 10 years ago.
Lynne and I had decided to take an overnight train from The City of Light to Madrid – a 16-hour journey. We could have flown it in about two hours, but I was sucked in by the old-worldness of it all. We would book the best sleeper compartment, with an ensuite bathroom, then dine on a sumptuous repast with white tablecloths, followed by happy slumber and waking up in exotic Spain.
Watching the internet ads for the service, it seemed to basically guarantee that if we both wore berets, we’d meet the men of our dreams onboard. That had to be worth the insane money we were paying out.
Before we even boarded, I began to question the wisdom of our travel decision. As usual, we had huge suitcases, so it took us a bit of effort to get to the platform. I then suddenly needed the bathroom. I got Lynne to stay with the bags, and I duckwalked to the other end of the station, following the signs for the toilettes. I barely made it to the turnstile (turnstile?) before seeing that I needed a euro for entrance. Ugh. I couldn’t get Lynne’s attention at that distance, and I didn’t know the hand signals for “Bring me a euro! Stat!” Besides, she couldn’t leave the cases. There was nothing else for it – I had to mince my way back to her, jump up and down while she rapidly searched for a coin in the bowels of her bag, then quickstep the return journey. I just made it to the stall in time. Thank goodness, as no matter how beautiful the beret I’d be donning on that train, I doubted any man would be entranced by a woman clearly sporting evidence of a weak bladder.
In the end, I had nothing to worry about. We encountered no single gentlemen. The sleeper did not match its pictures (it was cramped and could have used a paint palette other than Flaming Pepto Bismol); the meal was bonkers salty; and across the table, Lynne kept swinging through 30 degrees like a human metronome, matching the movement of the carriage. Our ensuite toilet with a shower head right above it looked like something out of a prison cell… or a scene from ‘Flashdance’. A freezing night of intermittent sleep with Lynne perched precariously on the top bunk was the icing on the cake.
We’ve all had our fair share of restroom encounters, whether on party boats (take your own toilet paper); using port-a-potties at concerts (bring a flashlight); figuring out how a modern, high-tech model works (have computer knowledge); visiting foreign countries; and when frequenting restaurants and bars in our neighbourhoods.
Business owners should know that, much like something only being as strong as its weakest link, so I feel that way about bathrooms. Keeping toilets in fine fettle is really important because no matter who people are or where they come from, at some point, customers will need to visit them.
I would also say to those who attend a public restroom or use one provided by a business, try to make an effort to appreciate it. Don’t be messy. Don’t drop a paper towel on the floor or leave it on the counter because the bin is full. If there’s something that needs to be sorted, let the staff know, don’t just leave it for the next person to face. We may not think about it, but having access to proper sanitation, flushing bowls, running water and soap is not something everyone has in this world. We shouldn’t take it for granted.
Sometimes we don’t know how lucky we are. Take it from someone who was faced with a hole in the ground on a dark night.
Can an Eli Roth film be far behind?
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