Reflections on a WC (or, My own Musee de la Poupee)

Anyone who knows me well, knows that I am persnickity about my toilets. I like 'em clean, and I like 'em to smell good. Did I mention that I like 'em clean? Like REALLY clean. Nothing stresses me out more than a disgusting bathroom.

In fact, the first thing I used to do when Steve and I were checking out a campsite when on any one of our many camping trips, was to check out the bathroom. Pit toilet was fine as long as it was clean and smelled reasonable.

Some recent stories about French and Italian hole-in-the-ground toilets have made me want to cry a little bit. I'm not sure that my thighs are strong enough for that kind of a squat without anything to hold onto. I should start doing lunges tomorrow.

One thing you don't get very often in the US is the WC or Water Closet, otherwise known as the little room that houses the toilet and nothing else.

I like the idea of having the toilet in its own separate room, it makes the rest of the bathroom feel cleaner and fresher to me, and then you also don't have to worry as much that if you've just had an unfortunate incident on the pot, you are going to inadvertently gas the poor unsuspecting person who just wants to wash his hands or brush his teeth.

So overall, I would say, yes, fan of the WC. In theory.

The WC we had in Paris however, took the "Closet" in WC to a whole new level. This space was not even a closet; it was a hobbit hole. This room was so tiny, you could barely close the door without your knees going through it. Honestly I don't know how Steve managed it.

I found that, once I had completed my transaction, I was completely unable to pull up my pants without opening the door. If I stood up and bent forward to retrieve them in one direction, I would bonk my noggin against the door; and if I turned around and tried to bend over to pull them up, I would come dangerously close to dunking my head in the toilet.

My only option was to open the door first, and then pull up my britches. This would have been fine if not for the fact that the WC essentially opened up into the main room.

So poor Steve would be sitting there minding his own business, only to have me pop out of the WC like a pants-less Jack-in-the-Box.

I think after a while though, he came to quite enjoy the spectacle of his wife throwing open the door, pants around her ankles, shouting "Aloha!" "Ciao!" or "Bonjour!"

I mean really, what's not to like about that, right?!

No posts for the next few days, as we will be in the Lake District in England without internet access. But I will get back to you as soon as I can.

After all, I still have to tell you about my boob light....

Intrigued?