petite anglaise

Every time I pass on of these high-tech loo pods in the streets of Paris, it calls to mind a story I once heard about a drowned toddler. I carried out some internet ‘research’, but found no proof that this actually happened, so presumably it is urban myth. Regardless, however desperate I might be, I can’t bring myself to use these automated contraptions.

Firstly, I am suspicious of the automatic door which closes behind you. Just how long would I have before it glides open? What if it malfunctions, revealing me at my most vulnerable, underwear around ankles, to a bustling Parisian street? And what if the cleaning mechanism kicks in and spray me from head to toe in disinfectant? Does the floor really open when this happens? I don’t think I want to find out.

The alternative of course is to use a café toilet. You don’t usually have to pay for the privilege, but you may get more than you bargained for. The queue for the cubicles is often directly opposite the urinals. Not exactly eye candy whether these are in use or not. This proximity is unlikely to be a source of distress/embarrassment to the average French male. Don’t forget, he has no qualms about relieving himself in the street in broad daylight.

What the French call “Turkish” toilets (i.e. holes in the floor) are still fairly common, even in Paris. Females beware: if wearing trousers, any minor miscalculation of trajectory will result in an unpleasant splashback effect.

On a more positive note, I did discover on my fairly extensive tour of Paris conveniences (when heavily pregnant) that metro/underground toilets are not as horrific as I imagined.  At Madeleine they are art nouveau, kept in pristine condition by the Dame Pipi (the attendant who takes your 30 centimes) and have shoe shine throne if you fancy a break and a bit of French polishing.

Starbucks recently opened their first Paris coffee shop a short distance from my place of work to great fanfare. I have been secretly hoping it would fail, as I rather like Paris the way it is, that is to say without too many global brands repeated ad infinitum on every shopping street.

However, I gave into temptation this morning on the way to work as I was feeling a bit low and managed to convince myself that a cockroach-free medium skinny caramel latte to go would help cheer me up.

The French have clearly missed the point of Starbucks. First of all, un café latte moyen avec lait écrémé, et sirop de caramel à emporter s’il vous plaît takes rather a long time to say. Then, after ordering, the experience is similar to French MacDonalds in that the global concept of fast food (or drink) has been translated in France into a “service” which is anything but. I was tempted to get behind the counter myself to speed things up.

The Frog in a suit in front of me wanted a café crème. When asked what kind of milk/coffee/sized cup he wanted and where he wanted to drink it, he looked vulnerable and lost, and stammered that he just wanted a café crème.

Bless.

When I was at school, the textbook we used in French lessons was called Tricolore.  Two cartoon strips provided a bit of light relief at regular intervals:  one was called Claude le Clochard (about a vagrant named Claude) and the other was Fifi la Folle (a madwoman). With hindsight I think it is a little odd that the French nation was represented by these two characters.* But having said that, there are plenty of Claude’s and Fifi’s in to be seen in the streets of Paris.

The difference between the homeless people I see in England and France is this: in England Claude is typically a cheeky chappy with the gift of the gab selling The Big Issue outside Marks & Spencer. In France, Claude is more likely to be found horizontal, sleeping/comatose on the pavement adjacent to a warm air vent, or in the metro with his belongings in a plastic laundry bag by his side, and a few empty screw top wine bottles. If you are unlucky he might be conscious and verbally abusive. One whom I see regularly in the metro calls all the ladies who walk past dirty whores. Verbal abuse I can deal with, but one of my greatest fears, particularly on public transport, is of being thrown up on by a drunk. It hasn’t happened yet, but give it time.

There are also ‘career’ beggars who spend the whole day riding the metro and giving their potted history over and over again. It must be soul-destroying stuff and so I am refraining from poking fun at them. But I am quite amused by the fact that when the euro became legal tender, their spiel changed overnight from asking for “un franc ou deux” to “un euro ou deux”. Nearly seven times more.

I wish my employers had applied the same logic.

*In my German book, Deutsch Heute, the cartoon strip was about a talking pig called Fränzi.