text: In 1981 I went to France and left my mark. I drove through the center of Paris on a hot and humid August morning. Here I was in one of the world’s great cultural centers. The Eiffel Tower looked down on the cheap rented Renault as I circled the Arc de Triomphe and headed down the Champs-Elysees . I didn’t think about the historical significance of the monument or the troops from France, Germany, the UK and the US who marched through it at different times under different circumstances. I zoomed past la Louvre on the left; who cared about the Mona Lisa and the other glorious treasures inside? They could wait. As Notre Dame came up on the right, I refused to contemplate the wonderful stained glass, flying buttresses, gargoyles or the awe inspiring interior. The tour boats on the Seine and the romantic young couples who strolled along the river bank were only distractions. At each stop light I looked in every direction seeking only one thing. When the light turned green I slammed on the gas and let go of the clutch like I was driving a formula one racer instead of a miserable cheap rental car without air conditioning. My passengers must have felt like we were being chased by Russian secret agents who wanted the microfilm I had hidden in the lining of my briefcase. They asked what was wrong and I didn’t say. No one was chasing me; I was looking for something of extreme importance. In desperation I took a right on the Rue Bonaparte, thinking that I could find it in a residential neighborhood. I flew across a lovely bridge and the river that deserved my attention. Einstein was right; time is relative. In my dire need time stretched out. As each cute goddamn cafe spun past things got worse. I speed through yellow lights and slammed on the squeaky brakes when red lights demanded it. People say Paris is the most beautiful city in the world. To me it became a nightmare. Then I saw it half way up the block on the left. I jammed on the turn signal, hit the brakes, locked up the tires and waited for a gap in the traffic headed in the other direction. Gridlock. A funeral procession was crossing the street behind me. They tied up that intersection and stopped all the vehicles between me and my goal. The deceased must have been someone significant because over one hundred cars escorted him to the cemetery. I was very sorry he died. I hoped he passed in peace surrounded by his loving family, faithful dog and mistresses after a long fruitful life. But I wished he had hung on for another day or two because his goddamn funeral was messing up my day. After the traffic started flowing, I waited for a good Samaritan to let me turn left. Where’s a cop or a f’ing thoughtful person when you need them? As I waited the people behind me started honking. Screw ‘em. I saw a whole new set of rude gestures in the rear view mirror. That’s the thing about international travel - you learn so much about other cultures. Finally a saint stopped to let me through, but I had to wait for a line of school girls dressed like Madeline and her classmates. Their little hats and dresses dawdle along ignorant of my urgent need. I spun into the driveway (only grazing the last little student in the line), jumped out of the car and rushed into the office of the gas station - a couple of old pumps near the sidewalk and an ancient building with two tiny service bays Now I’m not a language person - more of a numbers guy. But I knew the key words, “Où sont les toilettes?” The lady behind the counter saw and heard another rude American. In perfect English she said, “It’s in the back of the service bays.” Without a merci beaucoup I ran into the first service bay. A mechanic worked in a pit under a Citroen. I got down on my knees and stuck my head near the oily floor to get his attention. By then I could only say one word, “toilette?” He smiled at me and pointed to a closet door in the corner of the shop. I righted myself, hustled over to the door and tried the knob. It was locked. I knocked and heard, “Un moment.” F me on a flying doughnut. After twenty torturous seconds the door opened and mechanic number two came out while wiping his hands on a rag. He smiled at this dumb American and stepped around me. As soon as he passed I saw it; I thought my God this can’t be happening. There wasn’t a porcelain fixture, just a hole in the ground with an indentation in the floor on each side of it for your feet go. If this was a number one situation, no big deal or pas grave en frances, but I had a bigger issue. Last night’s dinner, steak tartare, had worked some evil magic in my gut and the dam down there was about to break in a most cataclysmic fashion. I closed the door, turned the lock and instantly analyzed the environment like Jason Bourne - no sink - only a hose - two metal grips to hold onto while you squat - single roll of tp hanging from a wire on the wall - no soap - no paper towels - no blow dryers. Check. OK, Smith, I thought make a plan and quick. I removed my shoes, socks, pants and underwear; rolled them into a bundle and held them on top of my head. This wasn’t going to be pretty and I did not want any collateral damage. I gripped one handle and settled onto my haunches like a catcher waiting for a fast ball. Everything let loose at once like a Saturn Five rocket. All systems were go. Houston, we have lift off. Next stop - the moon. My aim was not perfect, but under the circumstances I was proud of the achievement. After the storm had passed and with the help of the hose I rinsed off the floor and myself rather well, if I do say so. I got dressed and exited the WC like my shit don’t stink James fricking Bond. With a hardy bon jour to mechanic number one and mechanic number two I danced back to the Renault and drove off into the mid-day Parisian sun a new man thinking, “What’s for lunch?”.