En Pissant, or a Urinary Tract

M. Carpenter, Predefin, France

A Treatise on Urination and Associated Matters in France and Belgium With Particular Reference to the Sociological and Psychological Differences Regarding Such Between the Nations and Implications for Visitors from America.

When you move to another country you discover unexpected things about that country, sometimes in roundabout ways. Take bicycle races: Why is it that the average bicycle race in France is invariably an all-male affair? Our curiosity in that regard intensified as the 2001 Tour de France neared. Our rural idyll, a village in Northern France, was shaken awake as cycle teams practiced with ever-increasing fervor ‘round our back roads.

During one such training ride through our village, a motley group of locals turned out to watch, including my wife, whose knowledge of cycling matters is limited. As the cyclists whooshed down the hill past us, a loud splashing noise suddenly emanated from the pack. My wife quickly turned to the assembled throng and confidently announced, “Those poor cyclists, their radiator has sprung a. . . .” The words died on her lips as the reality of the situation became apparent: The pack was engaged in mass urination from the saddle as they peddled their merry way down the hill.

Fine, you might say. Packs of professional cyclists tinkling on country lanes are an exception that tests no rule. However, this is not the only matter relating to urination that a traveler to Northern France must consider. For instance, it is all very well to watch old French films where the natives disappear behind the waist-high cast-iron urinals situated in French market towns. “What a quaint amenity!” you might think. “I would like to try one myself.”

But as charming and picturesque as those urinals may still be, it’s best to remember they were built when the average Frenchman was about 12 inches shorter than the average male visitor from North America. Now, if you go into the men’s room in Chicago’s O’Hare Airport, you will see notices on the wall informing you of at least six criminal offenses it is possible to commit in one of its lavishly equipped conveniences. In the average French pissotiere, you can, without trying, commit at least seven – the greatest and likeliest of them being to protrude, even innocently, above the cast-iron screen by a considerable margin.

On a more up-to-date note, another interesting problem involves highway service areas. These are quite nice places, containing very modern toilet facilities, but they can lead to confusion among visitors from other continents. Here’s how: Some of the lavatories feature modern, semi-circular, tiled construction and are somewhat exposed to the elements. Do not use the urinal in these establishments unless you are absolutely sure it is the urinal you are using. It is probably best to consult a Catholic priest, if you are traveling with one, since practical commonsense observation of the facilities will be of no help whatsoever. I once wandered into one of them while a member of the gendarmerie was patrolling outside to ensure that travelers were not accosted by local perverts. After answering a call of nature, I emerged to be met by the policeman, who was wearing a quizzical expression. Though he said nothing to me, I pondered this matter for some days. Even now when I pass this particular “avant-garde” facility, I wonder what outrage I committed that offended him. Considerable subsequent onsite study led me to conclude that, confused by the facility’s labyrinthine semi-circular construction, I had strayed into the ladies’ room and used the slab designated for diaper changing. I do remember having to stand on tip toes, but, then, I am used to eccentric French plumbing.

One of the greater shocks that can await you in France is when you discover that the facilities do not have any of the useful porcelain accoutrements that you may be familiar with at home. It’s no use traveling with an inflatable toilet seat if you have nothing to put it on. There’s also the matter of location and privacy. On one occasion at a restaurant, I ventured through the door marked toilettes only to emerge into a courtyard where the men’s urinal was openly situated. The waitress from the restaurant was having a quick smoke between courses while leaning against the device. Rather than depart and leave me to my privacy, she gave the slightest arch of her eyebrows as though to say, “What are you waiting for?” Needless to say I muttered an excuse and left.

Do not think that going into a posh establishment will protect you. In one historic and venerable establishment in Belgium, the door to the men’s room is always propped open, offering customers at the expensive bar a direct view into what may be described as the line of fire. The second time I used this particular facility, I decided to move the wedge propping the door open. It made not the slightest difference: The door was composed entirely of clear glass.

A final word of warning: Do not think you can just go about urinating anywhere. Times have changed, even in rural France. Our local markets, which used to tolerate people relieving themselves against their walls, have now erected little notices in places thought to be strategically important to the hygienic delivery of food supplies. They say, “Pas de urinator.” This is probably not in your phrase book, but it should be observed.