It’s France, Hold On To Your Pants

It’s France, Hold On To Your Pants

I was forewarned. I thought I was ready. Ready to handle the frustrating, perplexing, and even occasionally costly matter that plagues most American tourists in France, sooner or later. I was wrong. Was I ever.

There should be added to the short list of “the only things that are certain in life” one more—and really, how it escaped Ben Franklin’s notice is beyond me; but maybe people just didn’t discuss public restrooms back then. Oh right; they didn’t have any. Well, Mr. Franklin would be right at home in modern France. Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose. (The more things change, the more they stay the same.)

I already knew from my experience in Ireland that folks on that side of the Atlantic don’t feel the same obligation to provide that most necessary of necessary rooms to their customers. If you’re lucky enough to find one, it will invariably be down a long, steep, dark stairway, at the far end of a narrow hall, about a kilometer underground and in the next county. Or so it will seem by the time you get there, only to find that it’s a “onesy” and you have to wait in the crypt with the other ladies. This explains the worried look on the face of the one wheelchair-bound person I saw in Ireland. But I digress …

So, back to France. I knew to search out information online ahead of time, to prepare myself for what to expect from les toilettes in la France. The French, my research disclosed, have thoughtfully shelled out taxpayer money to put deluxe versions of port-a-johns on many a public corner where they might provide relief to desperate tourists—if only any of them worked. None of them do, said the internet, and this was spot-on. They were futuristic-looking pods, a more modern version of something Dr. Who might be seen time-traveling in, but they were obviously better at form than function. My French friend would gamely search them out for me, then jog back to tell me what I already knew: “Ca ne marche pas.”

What was even more annoying was that the French seem not to even understand the concept of “when you gotta go, you gotta go!” A block or two from the Eiffel tower, I tried to enter a restaurant where I’d used the facilities the day before.

“Non, non, madame,” said a young man wielding a broom, “le restaurant est fermé.” Well, yes, I could see that it had just closed, but there stood the door to the restroom, inches away, an oasis of relief almost within my grasp. I gestured desperately towards it, but he stood there staunchly defending his turf, like a member of la Garde républicaine, defending the Bastille.

“Il y a une toilette pres d’ici?” I inquired. It seemed a reasonable question: “Is there another one nearby?” But the young gendarme de la toilette all but shooed me away with his broom. Fortunately, my friend has a car, and he likes to drive fast.

That little contretemps was nothing, however, compared to my last day in Paris. After a bit of shopping along the Champs Elysees (where we discovered a mall with—ye gads!—a Starbucks, of all things), we were ready for a sit and a real French cup of coffee, which is virtually unrecognizable from any sort of java served up stateside. We entered a dark, cozy place, perched on bar stools and ordered “un café,” which is a bit more than a thimbleful, though not much, but packs a wallop, as it’s about ten times stronger than what passes for coffee in American restaurants. It’s about a euro per sip, I think, but well worth it, if you ask me. (Sadly, it’s ruined me for American coffee, which I now refer to as “that swill Americans think is coffee.”)

So, my friend Laurent moseyed towards the back to use the necessary room, and I watched carefully to see where he went, so I wouldn’t get lost. You’d laugh at that if you saw the place, because it was nothing but one long room. However, I wasn’t taking any chances; you never know with the French, the restroom might be out back!

Laurent came back in short order and it was my turn. Feeling reasonably sure of my destination and the likelihood of success (for once), I wended my way down the bar and between the tables, past a large party of young soldiers and their girlfriends who had pushed several tables together, just outside the door that Laurent had exited. It was an old-fashioned, dark wood door that led to what anyone must know would be the toilette. Anyone had better know, because it was unmarked. But I had the security of having seen Laurent leave from there, and I knew that in France, the outer entrance to restrooms was generally for both sexes; in fact, sometimes even the sink area was! So, I yanked open the wooden door, scuttled inside, and in the dim interior saw two doors: one marked “Hommes” for men, and the other…hm, what did it say? It was some sort of notice, which I could not really read in the darkness, my French being less than perfect, but one thing I was certain of: nowhere on that door did it say “Femmes” or “Filles” or any other indication of femaleness.

Well, heck, I thought, it has to be for women, right? The other one’s for men ... so, here goes … what the..?? There was no hope of opening that door—it had a locking mechanism on it worthy of Fort Knox. I leaned in and gave it a hard look, conscious all the time of the raucous party of young people just on the other side of the wooden door behind me. Nope, there was no opening this door without inserting a coin in that weird mechanical gizmo. But what kind of coin? I had one euro coins, fifty centimes, twenty centimes, maybe even a cute little midget-sized euro-penny…but was I going to stand there in the dark, rifling through my coin purse? I wasn’t even sure I was in the right place, now. Why would there be one door marked Men and not another marked Women? Was one a free toilet for men and the other, a more prestigious pay version for discerning gentlemen? I needed a translator, and mine was way up at the front of the room sipping his coffee.

Chagrined, I turned around and headed back out the wooden door, feeling about twenty pairs of eyes on me as I squeezed alongside the soldiers’ table. Suddenly, sensing a flurry of motion, I dragged my eyes from the floor to see that a waiter was rushing toward me, thrusting something into my hand. Eureka! I had coinage! How nice, he had given me a . . . well, some kind of coin, anyway, and now I was set. I turned around, ready to march back into that cave and put my thingamajiggy in the whatchamacallit. 

But, wait ... I hadn’t noticed it before, but there was another door out here, adjacent to the entrance I’d just exited. I squinted at it and was horrified to see that it had a metal mechanism on it reminiscent of the one on the other side of the wooden door. Was this Rube Goldberg contraption the ladies room? Surely it was an emergency exit? But I didn’t see “Sortie” written anywhere on it. I started into the anteroom again, but couldn’t make myself try the coin slot. What if this area was all the men’s room? What if there was a man in there right now, who would scream, “Sacre bleu!” at the top of his Gallic lungs when I flung open the door. Mortified at my indecision, I crept back out again to see if what lay out there made any more sense than it had five seconds ago. Inwardly wincing, I glanced at the table of France’s finest, to see if they were watching. Oh, yeah … they all were.

Something snapped in me like a twig breaking, and giving up all dignity, I turned towards the amused young faces and gestured hopelessly.

“Is it this one?” Gesticulating wildly towards the outer door-monstrosity. “Or that one?” Waving vaguely towards the inner sanctum of male domination.

“Non, non,” soldiers and company said, waving me farther on, and pointing at the wooden door. “C’est ca!” Finally! An answer!

I have no memory of the next three minutes or so. None whatsoever. I don’t even remember sticking the coin in the slot and making the door spring open like the entrance to the lost Ark. But I do know that when I’d finished my business I realized that I had to walk the gauntlet back to where Laurent was waiting. If not for the thought of his getting worried enough to call la police if I never showed up, staying in that restroom ‘til closing time sounded like a really good option. But alas, I knew I had to face the music—or the camouflage fatigues, as it were.

A well-brought-up part of my brain told me that I should thank the nice boys and girls for their assistance as I breezed by, but my feet were apparently not schooled in Miss Manners. I practically flew out that door and down the length of the room, thankful that it was so long and narrow the front half of the place couldn’t possibly know what embarrassing faux pas the back half was up to. I should have just meekly crawled onto my barstool and left it at that, but it was just too overwhelming to keep to myself. And I was more than a little peeved at Laurent for not telling me that the gents got to go for free, but the ladies had to pay. I spun the story out for him as best I could in my broken French and more English than he could handle. I let my outrage show a little, too: “It does not say “Women” anywhere on that door!”

“Sure, it do,” he said, frowning.

“Non, je te dis, nowhere! And women have to pay! The waiter gave me a coin, or I couldn’t have gotten in!”

Oh, me and my big mouth. Now, Laurent’s sense of propriety kicked into high gear, and despite my attempts to shush him, he insisted on asking the bartender how much it cost to get in the ladies room, so that we could reimburse the waiter. The bartender was confused at first, but when he finally figured out what Laurent was going on about, he shook his head, making dismissive gestures as he spewed out French at the speed of sound. Of course, I couldn’t understand a word.

“Ah,” said Laurent, turning back towards me. “It was not a real coin, it was a token.” He looked at me as if to say, “Can’t you tell the difference between a real coin and a fake one?” Yeah, come on over to my side of the Pond, I thought. Let’s see if you can tell a quarter from a Susan B. Anthony.

Well, so ended my last day in the most beautiful city in the world, the last day of intrepid travels undertaken on my own, venturing out into a foreign country where I’m not even fluent in the language, to prove to myself that I am a strong, independent woman—who can’t even manage to go to the bathroom without the aid of an entire French battalion. Vive la France!