My girlfriend, my brother, and I were in France this June, visiting Paris, Nantes, and La Baule, which is considered the Miami Beach of France. Contrary to stereotypes, the French aren't any ruder or nastier than anyone else. They were nice to us and I even got quite a few compliments on my French from native speakers. Both my proudest moment and my worst moment on the trip occurred on the
Train a Grande Vitesse (High Speed Train) from Nantes to Paris. My best moment was when I explained in French to our conductor that a traffic jam between the beach and Nantes had resulted in our missing the train noted on our tickets and putting us on the next one into Paris. Unlike the other group of Americans who spoke less French and got on at a later stop, we were spared from having to pay a penalty fee.
Feeling my oats after this transaction, I left my girlfriend and brother in their seats and went in search of the toilet to have a dump. With the train blazing down the tracks at 280 kph mph (that's around 175 mph), I calmly seated my contented cheeks above the SNCF (French Federal Railway System)-issue toilet and birthed a comfortable log. I punched the flush button and whisked the poop away into the hidden guts of train's sewage system. And then I looked for the toilet paper. A problem: where was the roll? There was an empty slot in the wall that appeared to be for tissues, but NO ROLL! I was stuck.
My brain raced as I sat in the rail commode in an awful pickle. This was France, where the railroad system is vaunted as well-funded and beautifully maintained; so where was the %&##& toilet paper?!
However, weighing the merits of the French railroad system did not get me any closer to clean. Here I was, faced with no bum-wad and a butt full of poo! I immediately thought of things people have done on PoopReport: should I strip out of my undies and use them to wipe? But what if they clogged the shitter? My language skills had kept us onboard when we had the wrong tickets, but nothing would keep us in the crew's good graces if I stopped up the crapper! Should I try to rinse my rump using water from the sink? I turned on the taps and got nothing but a scalding hot trickle -- another option gone.
By now I'd been in the rolling commode for a good fifteen minutes and was no closer to a solution. I prayed in vain that my brother or girlfriend would come looking for me; but no help appeared. I began having paranoid visions of a line of ticked-off Frenchies waiting for les toilettes. Finally I realized what I would have to do: I would put my pants back on -- my butt unwiped -- and try to find another bathroom. One that had some toilet paper in it.
I steeled myself for the forthcoming battle. Up went my pants. Walking carefully, as though my innards were made of china, I stepped out into the corridor. The bathroom directly across the corridor had been my primary objective; but, alas, it was in use. I then made my way down into the next car full of people, all the while imagining that I was trailing a cloud of stench like Pepe Le Pew. I was three-fourths of the way down the car, clamped cheeks, dreaming of the salvation of another SNCF rail commode, when what should appear but a French businessman with a briefcase making his way towards the café car -- IN MY DIRECTION! Those of you who travel by train know that passing in the aisle between the seats requires that one of the two passing parties' rumps brush the seats -- or sometimes the shoulder -- of a seated passenger. This is no sweat with a clean butthole; but I was not in possession of one.
Like an engineer desperate to avert a collision with a stalled school bus on a grade crossing, I threw my legs into reverse and backed ALL THE WAY down the aisle back to the corridor; Pierre and his briefcase sailed by with ease.
Now all dignity and thoughts of upholding the Stars and Stripes overseas were cast to the wind. I bounded down the aisle and thumped my way into another crapper. Salvation at last: little pink squares of toilet paper in that mysteriously empty-looking slot in my original crapping compartment I had rightfully supposed was to hold tissues.
When it comes to funding and realizing the importance of a system that really works, the U.S. government could learn a thing or two about how to run a railroad from the French. That being said, SNCF would do well to check in with Amtrak regarding how to keep the bathroom stocked up. But next time your Acela is late and you're cursing out Amtrak, just remember that at least they'll have toilet paper for you when they do (eventually) arrive.
-- Nate Curtis
