French Toilets (a dissertation)

In the beginning, I knew that European bathrooms are smaller than American ones. I knew that they are not always nice, frequently dirty, and used for suspicious activity associated with other parts of the body. 

In short, I thought I could handle it, being aware as I was. 

Then, upon entering my host's house and receiving the (short) tour of the place, I noticed that the toilet was in a room by itself, and the rest of the bathroom was elsewhere. Odd, certainly. Weird. But easily overcome, especially because the toilet paper looked like this: 

 Purplish pink and smaller than average. The perfect thing for Barbie's dream mansion. But then my host mom told me that the plumbing in the house is very old and small. Therefore you put your (used) toilet paper into a garbage can right next to the toilet... Horror is an accurate description of my sentiments at that moment. 

So OK, you do what you got to do. I went about it delicately because of the shifting toilet seat and the paper thin walls. I have yet to master the art of the Silent Pee, and I'm pretty sure you can hear what's going down in any part of the house. It's awkward.

 I decided that in the heart of town would be better. I'd wait for the prosperous school building before releasing my bowels. It seemed like a sturdier way to see a man about a wallaby. I dreamt of a large toilet, one you could sit on without fear of breaking. Of a sink in the same room. Of thicker walls and a fan so other people can't hear you do your business.

Then I got to school.

 There are at least 40-60 students there during class and there is one bathroom for each sex. Fear began to settle. Here is the layout: 

To top it off they had a large sign explaining in 3 languages that the trash is for used toilet paper, absolutely no paper is to be flushed. The risk of clogging only women's toilet was too great. No flushing paper.

Sadness filled my soul. 

But I had to go. And when you have to go... you have to go.

Thus:

I survived the experience and even after washing my hands three times in the wallet-sized sink this was all I could think: 

I began a search for the best toilets in town and there are none. That is to say they are all on the same level. Short, fragile toilets, cramped spacing and close proximity to others. The most improvement I've seen is a little sanitary bag to put your paper in before putting it into the trash. But that bathroom cost $0.75 a go. 

I began to fear the bathroom experience, to dread it's coming. I would hold off, and when I felt the need I tried to delay it. As if that would improve the situation. 

It really only results in a panic when I finally get to the bathroom. All the layers to get through: the belt, the button, the zipper, pulling the pants down. It's a lot of stuff and when you gotta go it's like you're on Wipe Out or something. Major consequences if you mess up. Then I almost break the toilet seat sitting down so eagerly. 

By then there is no hope of a silent pee. By that point its like a geyser. And this is how I'm pretty sure it sounds to the rest of the house: I'M PEEING!! I AM PEEING. EVERYONE! I'M IN THE BATHROOM, PEEING... I'M STILL PEEING. STILL--WAIT....PEEING... OK I'M DONE! I AM DONE PEEING!

I think the only way to survive is to accept it. It is was it is, and I gotta go.