Ah, Paris. City of Lights. A lover's paradise... and the worst place to be if you have to use the toilet.
On on a recent day trip to Paris for a class on the finer techniques of French pastry making at La Cuisine Paris (www.lacuisineparis.com), I discovered the malaise one experiences when gripped with the necessity of the Parisian public toilette.
My long day began with a 4 am taxi ride to St. Pancras station in London. I had slept a grand total of 10 hours in 3 days which is not not ideal for the digestion. I was determined to be as alert as possible for my class so I decided that drinking a Red Bull and chasing it with coffee was a good idea. Quel dommage… ("such a pity")
This was the first time I had traveled to Paris without my dad. He always took care of everything. He was a master of arguing with the French-- the hand gestures, the shrugging of the shoulders, arguing with the bad tempered maitre'd as a distraction as I scurried into the toilette to do my business... He was not there this time. I was on my own in one of the most beautiful, busiest, and (at times) rudest cities in the world.
On the 2 hour train ride to Paris, high on nerves and caffeinated beverages, I had already used the loo 4 times-- I knew it was going to be a long day in search of les toilettes.
My baking class was wonderful! I did use the bathroom 3 times there. I thought I was done: I was wrong.
In the class, we made croissants, pain aux chocolat and a wonderfully decadent pastry cream: all of which we consumed, along with more coffee, like a pack of ravenous wolves. It was this gastronomic gluttony that tipped the scales for me from mild discomfort into digestive nightmare.
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| Some of our French pastry creations at La Cuisine Paris |
After our class was finished, the lovely proprietress of the school was asking me about my job as a hairdresser on Broadway but all I heard was the "wah wah wah" assigned to an adult in the Peanuts animated cartoons of my youth: I had to go. Now.
Sweat started to form on my upper lip. I wanted so badly to use her toilette again but this next time would have polluted her precious école beyond repair. Thankfully, la poste (the mail) arrived and distracted the headmistress. I thanked her for the class and left quickly.
I hobbled along the Seine, cursing my excessive carb and caffeine consumption. "Toilette gratuit, s'il vous plait?" ("Free toilet, please?") I moaned to a craggy looking Frenchman complete with a fisherman's hat and Gaulish hooked nose. "HAHAHAHAHA!" Was all he said. I was on my own. The City of Lights was turning into the city of the cistern.
I searched desperately for a coin-operated public toilet to no avail.
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| Public, self sanitizing, coin operated "pissoir" in Paris |
I looked to the heavens and asked my dad for help. We had a running joke about this very thing. Every year my mother, father and I would take a holiday to Europe to see "the old country." Being raised on Hawaiian/American foods, I was always unprepared for the inundation of high fat delights that met me in Europe. This caused me, like Pavlov 's dog to be "moved" right before supper, much to the chagrin of my father. One fateful evening I was, yet again, in the bathroom holding up supper. From the dining room I heard my father curse in French and make his way down the hall to where I was hunkered down for my pre-supper ritual. Pounding on the bathroom door he said, "Alright cheri, this is it. I forbid you to go and shit before we eat." Now, it seems, he had the last laugh.
I suddenly heard the bells of Notre Dame. I felt like Quasimodo, hunched over and in pain as I saw this as a sign from God. I looked across the river and there it was: the gargoyles, the stained glass, the flying buttresses... buttresses... butt... I snapped back to reality then.
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| Notre Dame: no toilette |
I crossed the bridge to Île de la Cité: the original Paris. As I made my way to The Lady of the Lavatory, tourists began to swarm around me, asking me for directions. Bent over as I was, perhaps they did think I was Quasimodo after all. I had no time to direct them, "Ehhh... I no speeek ze eengleesh..." I said in my best Inspector Clouseau and dragged on.
Stumbling into the house of god, I fell onto the information desk and shouted, "LES TOILETTES??" The volunteer was not amused. "Madame, zees ees not a toilette, zees ees zee 'ouse of dieu." I was now moving into flop-sweat territory, "Well then, monsieur, maybe dieu can let me use his throne for a bit!" Well I thought it was funny anyway…
Now back outside, I noticed a brasserie across the street. I stumbled through the entrance to the bar, "Monsieur.. s'il vous plait, les toilettes!!" He gave me the well known Parisian stare down over his reading glasses, "Il faut manger avant." Great, I'd have to order more intestine-blocking food first. Oh, the irony. I asked if a beer was enough to pay the toll to les toilettes. Monsieur le troll thought about it for awhile, relishing his position over my relief. Eventually he agreed to the price of freedom: une bier.
I ordered a beer and drank deeply-- hands shaking as I watched him through the funhouse-like beer glass. I slammed the glass down on the cold marble counter, waited again for the "all clear" and finally he nodded his approval. Taking the winding staircase to the basement, I finally reached the bottom of the steps to find... a pay toilet. Merde.
Tears welling up in my eyes, I searched desperately through my bag for a 50 cent Euro, mumbling my disapproval to my father.
Suddenly, the dulcet hammering of a Bronx accent pierced my troubled mind and a gaggle of women from New York City descended upon this pay toilet from hell. The leader of the party was a short, well groomed sassy broad named Barb. As she entered the small alcove she screeched, "What kind of chicken-shit operation is this??" I knew right then and there, my father had sent her to teach me how to work the system. "Hey!" she barked at me, "You put your money back, doll. We ain't payin' for shit if you know what I mean. As soon as the next broad comes out, you're in, babe."
I almost rushed into her arms to thank her but in my current condition I was too terrified to make any sudden movements. As soon as the current customer opened the door of the stall, Barb got a firm New York grip on it, "I'll hold the damned door for ya if ya hold it for me. Savvy?" Savvy.
I ran into the tiny toilette only to find something akin to ancient Rome: a porcelain bowl with no seat and toilet paper littered all over the floor. I didn't care. Millions of people around the world still squat to do their business so this was a step up from a hole-in-the-ground.
After my sweet release, I exited, held the door for Barb, thanking her profusely and climbed the stairs giving the maître d' "l'oeil du boeuf" ("Eye of the Bull" or a "dirty look").
I had learned my lessons: never pay to poo in Paris, never combine caffeines and know where the toilets are before you wander the city.
Post Script:
I have since learned that there is indeed une toilette on the south side of Notre Dame. Of course there is.
Below are some links for information on toilets in Paris.
Know before you "go."
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