Lessons from Abroad: The Price of Public Restrooms

One little quirk about Europe is that generally, to use a public restroom, you have to pay for it.  It can be anywhere from a few cents to 2 Euros/SwissFrancs, not enough to break the bank, but enough to be a nuisance.  I can't tell you how many times I held up the line as I dug around frantically in my pockets/backpack for enough spare change to get me in to the throne room. Whether it be a dour-faced attendant in a striped apron, a coin-slotted turnstile, or simply a white china plate, your business remains unfinished until the money leaves your hands.

Now in my home city, I soon figured out which department stores and restaurants had free bathrooms. But when I was traveling, I used what I could find and it always came at a price. How I grumbled and pined for the restrooms of the motherland! Get in, get out, your wallet untouched! I have to pay to relieve myself? How preposterous!

And then I came home. 
One road trip after another, one gas station/fast food restaurant bathroom after the next and now the shoe is on the other foot.

Oh Europe. I would throw a thousand glittering coins at your feet to see the pristine chambers within your rest stops. Oh Switzerland! How I long for your motion-activated air fresheners and your self-cleaning toilet seats. A hundred sonnets I have composed about the white sparkling walls, the floor-to-ceiling stall doors, the alpine-scented handsoap! I offer you my pockets, all my riches, for the chance of one more use of your facilities. Come now, and we shall perform our ablutions with delight in the ambient lighting and softly playing elevator music of the room for "Les Femmes".

But it is not to be.  A single, salty tear rolls down my cheek as I perch uncomfortably on the metal prison pots of the Midland Community Park restroom, that are somehow always wet and always cold, even though it's 90 degrees outside. On the way to the faucet, my feet dance a complicated samba around the prostrate carcasses of dead cockroaches and pools of dear-goodness-I-hope-that's-just-muddy-water. One, two, three futile pumps at the soap dispenser, a sad wheeze of plastic the only indication that it once contained the promise of clean hands.  With a mournful sigh, I push on the "Hot" tap, hoping the temperature alone will cleanse the filth of this horrible experience. 1.7 seconds later, the water shuts off with a gurgle. Thus begins the confusing process of holding the faucet on with one hand while rushing to wet the other. 

And then the drying, or lack thereof. If it's not the weak breeze of an air dryer, it's scratchy brown paper towels that leave splinters in your hands. Finally, the escape route: an intricate strategy that involves opening the door with the paper towel and then lobbing it into the trashcan. One misplaced trashcan, one empty dispenser and the whole jig is up. I JUST WANT TO LEAVE WITHOUT TOUCHING ANYTHING. 

And so I come to you, reader, embittered but reproved. Learn from my woes: "Free" is not necessarily better, especially when it comes to the bathroom.  If you ever visit Europe, don't complain about the price of the public restroom.  Take a moment and enjoy the fact that you will be far less likely to leave with some sort of communicable disease. And for those of you sticking around the States: If you can't hold it til you get home, at least bring hand sanitizer with you.

Good Morning Paris

The sun has risen but has not shown its face from behind the clouds. It's just a mite chilly in Jillian's apartment but I have enough blankets to burrow in like a mole setting up for winter. Even the unexplicable construction occuring outside at 8 am is a pleasant change for my ears.

Last night I arrived after the world's most unnerving train ride (police men and drug dogs, I'll leave it at that)
and was greeted by a friendly and amusing Scotsman, who walked with me to await Jillian in her apartment. We were soon joined by Jillian and a cheerful Canadian and whiled away the evening hours with some pasta and copious amounts of tea. It was a pleasing introduction to what looks to be another fantastic weekend.

This random post is my excuse to say I wrote something this week. I'd say more but this French computer has the world's worst organized keyboard and I'm reduced to picking out the letters with two fingers like a sad overworked, underpaid 55 year old receptionist who never took a typing class. Also there is the promise of bagels if I venture outside today.

Until next time then. Start your weekend early today, I won't tell.