Some things in Europe never change. My family lived in France for four years in the 50’s, and after we returned to the States, my mom would regale her friends with tales of French guys relieving themselves by the side of the road. “They don’t even try to hide it, you know.” After spending two weeks in Italy, I can report that European men still relieve themselves by the side of the road. OK, I did it myself. Twice. But at least I went behind buildings and trees. The first time I saw a guy doing it, I found myself frantically thumbing through my Italian phrase-book searching for the phrase “Hey, that looks like a penis, only smaller!” Oddly enough, it wasn’t in there.  What a rip-off. 

What has changed is the general attitude towards hygiene. Not the people themselves, of course. But at some point they realized, hey, we still don’t have to bathe daily (or ever, really), but we’re making boatloads of ducats from tourists, especially those cleanliness-obssessed Americans, and the only thing that will scare away an American faster than a plateful of broiled land-mollusks is a filthy bathroom. If you’ve ever had the delightful experience of going to the bathroom in what is essentially a hole in the ground surrounded by tile and a couple of footrests, you’ll be glad to know that every single bathroom we encountered in a place of business was thoroughly modern and absolutely spotless. It almost made me nostalgic for the old bathrooms, until I went in a “public” accommodation in one of the oldest towns in Europe and found the ol’ hole in the ground.

Europeans are a tad more hygiene-aware these days.  When we first moved to France, we got a house in a little village about thirty clicks outside Paris. The biggest house in town, of course, as befitted rich Americans.  As a matter of fact, the German gaulieter had lived in it during the war.  Anyway, my mom had decided from the beginning that we weren’t going to be Ugly Americans. We would immerse ourselves in the culture. I wouldn’t go to the American school, I’d attend the village school, and if I wanted to find the bathroom I’d have to learn French. She wouldn’t shop in the Commissary, she’d buy our food from the village shops.  So the first day in town, she walks up the hill to the center of the village, and goes in the local boulangerie for bread.  Behind the counter is the stereotypical old French woman, black outfit, the whole nine yards. Mom orders a baguette in heavily-accented French.  The old lady kind of sniffs, and starts to walk over to the wall-rack that has the bread.  On her way over, she reaches in the pocket of her smock, whips out a filthy handkerchief, and goes “Hoooooonnnnnnnk!!” She grabs the baguette with the same hand, and plops it down on the counter.  This was the big moment for Mom. The big test. Would she stick to all her high-flown principles about culture, or would she admit defeat and slink out with her tail between her legs, never to return. Of course, she put down her Francs, grabbed the bread, and walked out trying to look nonchalant. The lesson was that if you want to eat real French bread, you have to take a little French snot with it, or as we refer to it nowadays, “De Villepin.”

But, I digress. The trip. Right. At this point, you’re no doubt asking yourself, “Craig, do you have a travel-as-nightmare story?” Right after having asked yourself, “Why is Jeff letting this idiot post here?” Well, yes, I do. It started off innocently enough.  You know, like the part in a horror movie where the kids are all sitting around the fire eating toasted marshmallows and singing camp songs.  The trip to Chicago was uneventful, and went pretty quickly. It was during the layover there that things started getting, well, funky.  One of my Seven Principles to Live By is: Never, ever take a dump in the morning in an airport or ski lodge bathroom.  What you inevitably get is ten stalls in a row with guys taking their morning constitutionals, and I don’t have to tell you what that results in.  So when I found a small, out-of-the-way bathroom with one regular stall and one handicapped stall, I thought, “Perfect.” Two guesses which stall I took. Hey, I’m handicapped!  Have you been reading this shit? Anyway, no sooner do I get in there than a guy goes into the stall next to me–the only other stall in the goddamned bathroom–and starts faithfully re-enacting the Jeff Daniels laxative scene in “Dumb and Dumber.” It really took the luster off the cool new doohickeys they have that automatically slide a fresh, sterilized, clear plastic cover for the toilet seat around when you flush.  That’s another one, by the way. Never flush someone else’s remains before you go. I won’t bother with the whole explanation of the principle of aerosolization, but when you’re in line for the urinal and the guy in front of you flushes, guess what’s wafting up into your face as you’re unzipping your fly?  Hmmm, better move on.

For any women who are still reading this, don’t worry, there’ll be plenty of fascinating insights for you later on. You know, about shopping and stuff like that.  And yes, I know I haven’t even mentioned my sainted, long-suffering wife.  I’m not done with the guy humor yet. Coming up?  Boogers!!