In 1981 I went to France and left my mark.
I drove through the center of Paris early one hot and humid August morning. Here I was in one of the world’s great cultural centers. The Eiffel Tower looked down on my cheap rented Renault as I circled the Arc de Triomphe and headed up the Champs-Elysees. I didn’t think about the historical significance of that monument or the troops from France, Germany, the UK and the US who marched through it at different times under different circumstances. I zoomed past le Louvre, dying to see the Mona Lisa, but she had to wait. As Notre Dame came up on the right, I refused to contemplate the wonderful stained glass, flying buttresses, gargoyles or the awe inspiring interior. I knew they’d be there when I had time. Boy was I wrong; who knew the place would burn down? The tour boats on the Seine and the romantic young couples who strolled along the river bank were only distractions.
At each stop light I looked in every direction seeking only one thing. When the light turned green, I stomped on the gas and let go of the clutch like I was driving a formula one machine instead of a miserable cheap rental car, without air conditioning.
It looked like Russian secret agents were chasing me; they wanted the microfilm I had hidden in the lining of my briefcase.
No one was chasing me; rather, I urgently needed a very specific thing. In desperation I took a right on the Rue Bonaparte, thinking that I could find my objective in a residential neighborhood. I flew across a lovely bridge and ignored the river that deserved my attention.
Einstein was right; time is relative. In my dire need minutes became hours. As each cute as an f’ing sea otter cafe spun past, things got worse.
I sped through yellow lights and slammed on the squealing brakes when red lights demanded it.
People say Paris is the most beautiful city in the world. To me it became a nightmare of twisted streets which refused to meet at right angles.
Then I saw it half way up the block on the left. I jammed on the turn signal, hit the brakes, locked up the tires and waited for a gap in the traffic headed in the other direction.
Gridlock.
A funeral procession was crossing on the boulevard behind me. They tied up that intersection and stopped all the vehicles between me and my goal. The stiff must have been someone significant because over one hundred cars escorted him to the cemetery. I was very sorry he died. I hoped he passed in peace surrounded by his wife, two sons, three pet turtles and four mistresses. But I wished he had hung on for another day or two because his miserable stinking funeral was messing up my day.
After the traffic started flowing, I waited for a good Samaritan to let me turn left. Where’s a cop or a God d#m! thoughtful person when you need them? As I waited the people behind me started honking. Screw ‘em sideways. I saw a whole new set of rude gestures in the rearview mirror. That’s the best part of international travel – learning about other cultures.
Finally a saint stopped to let me through, but I had to wait for a line of school girls dressed like Madeline and her classmates. Their little hats and coats dawdle along, ignorant of my pressing need. After exhausting all my patience, the girls were out of my way. I spun into the driveway barely missing the last small student. I vaulted out of the car and rushed into the office of the gas station. It wasn’t much, just a couple of old pumps near the sidewalk and an ancient building with two tiny service bays
Now I’m not a language person – more of a numbers guy. But I knew the key words, “Où sont les toilettes?”
The madame behind the counter saw and heard another ignorant and rude American. In perfect English she said, “It’s in the back of the service bays.”
Without a merci beaucoup I ran into the first service bay.
A mechanic worked in a pit under a Citroen. I got down on my knees and stuck my head near the oily floor to get his attention. By then I could only say one word, “toilette?”
He smiled at me and pointed to a closet door in the corner of the shop.
I righted myself, hustled over to the door and tried the knob. Son of a mange eaten mongrel bitch in heat, it was locked. I knocked and heard, “Un moment.”
F me on a flying frijole.
After forty-five torturous seconds the door opened and Mechanic Number Two came out while wiping his hands on a rag. He smiled at this dump American and stepped around me. He knew something I didn’t.
As soon as he passed I saw it. I thought Jesus wept, haven’t these people ever heard of modern plumbing? There wasn’t a porcelain fixture, just a hole in the ground with two indentations on the sides for your feet. Was this the dark ages?
OK time to toughen up, Buttercup.
Now if this was a number one situation, no big deal or pas grave en francais, but I had a bigger issue. Last night’s dinner, steak tartare, had worked some evil magic in my gut and the dam down there was about to break in a most cataclysmic way.
I closed the door, turned the lock and instantly analyzed the environment like Jason Bourne – barely room to turn around – no sink – only a hose – two metal grips to hold onto while you squatted – a single roll of tp hanging from a wire on the wall – no soap – no paper towels – no shelf.
OK, Smith, make a plan and be quick. I removed my shoes, socks, pants and underwear; rolled them into a bundle and held them on top of my head. This wasn’t going to be pretty and I did not want any collateral damage.
I gripped one handle and settled onto my haunches like a catcher waiting for a fast ball.
Everything let loose at once like a Saturn Five rocket. All systems were go. Houston, we have lift off.
My aim was not perfect, but under the circumstances I was proud of the achievement.
After the storm had passed and with the help of the hose, I rinsed off the floor and myself rather well, if I do say so. I got dressed and exited the WC like my shit don’t stink James fricking Bond.
With a hardy bonjour to Mechanic Number One and Mechanic Number Two, I tap danced back to the Renault like Fred Astaire, but I left the car and enjoyed my walk to the Louvre in the bright Parisian sun. When I finally saw the Mona Lisa I felt she was smiling just for me. She knew what I had been up to. She was saying, “We’ve all been there, big guy.”