Today I went to the Louvre and listened to Led Zeppelin I through IV, and then to d'Orsay to listen to some Blue Train and Miles Davis.

Fusion

When I was younger, there was a video that I loved to watch about a young pharoah whose soul was trapped in a museum until he could answer a riddle. Every night he would go and stand before the god Osiris, and if he had the answer to the riddle, he'd be let into the afterworld. The answer had eluded him for centuries.

"Where does today meet yesterday?"

Ultimately, the pharoah figures out the answer to the riddle with a little help from Big Bird, and is let into the afterworld to join his family. The answer that required the deductive skills of a 7 foot tall yellow bird was "in a museum", a literal ironic twist of plot resulting from Big Bird (today) physically meeting an alive pharoah of yesterday.

Aaaaanyways.

Today I reenacted that riddle by dancing around a room of Italian and Spanish antiquities and statues blaring "Heartbreaker" on my iPod, Samuel L. Jackson. I wonder if the anonymous sculptures carving the Virgin and Child 900 years ago thought that one day their art would be seen by somebody who was also absorbing the lyric "squeeze me baby till the juice runs down my leg."

I examine a mummy of a 21 year old woman from 11th century Thebes while listening to "it's been a long time since I've rock and rolled." No shit. As I'm picturing myself as a mummy under scrutiny in some gallery 900 years from now, "Stairway to Heaven" comes on, and I can't help but wonder if Samuel L. Jackson is looking at the mummy from my back pocket, too. I wander over to the death mask of a Roman woman from the 3rd century A.D. and look into her eyes while Robert Plant sings about if there's "a bustle in your hedgerow, don't be alarmed now. It's just a spring clean for a may queen." And I meditate on what this woman's life might have been like. The interaction devolves into a staring contest. She wins.

From the Louvre I walked over the Passerelle Solferino and sat at the apex. I looked out at the Seine wishing that I had someone to call to say "I love you", or a cell phone with which to do that. But then I realized that I don't want to tie this view or this experience to any person but myself. Life has limitless possibilities. A drop of water from the Seine might end up in the North Pole or the Mediterranian Sea. I need to live my life like the water, moving non-stop around the stangnant land.

Maximilian Luce, Le Louvre et le Pont-Neuf la nuit, éventail 1890-1892

Henri Matisse, Luxe, Calme et Volupté 1904

In which the protagonist enumerates the trials and tribulations that a foreigner must face before going to the bathroom for any purpose in Europe.

If you are planning a trip to Europe for more than five hours, most likely you will have to have at least one encounter with a European bathroom. For this reason, the bathroom is often the first site of real culture shock once one arrives in this wonderful continent. Seemingly, a country like France offers the first-world comforts of home, with the vacation-like quaintness of a different language. However, when it comes to all things bathroom, the country deteriorates into a savage-like jungle, with obstacles to be faced in order to approach all facets of normal bathroom activity. Perhaps this is the true reason behind the stereotype of French people being stinky; They just don't have easy access to bathroom facilities.

Public and private toilets in France have different issues that separate them from the bathrooms that we've come to be comfortable with in North America. Firstly, when it comes to public facilities, one cannot always be guaranteed a separate washroom for men and women. In fact, to get separate washrooms for men and women is highly unusual, and usually only happens in very heavily trafficked areas, like the Louvre or maybe EuroDisney. More often than not, the toilet is in a tiny little cabin to itself, and outside of it, there is a sink. And I'm not going to sugar-coat it; the French don't really believe in the modern wonder of soap as a bathroom staple. Both men and women use this one toilet cabin, so chances of finding a clean public washroom in Paris is slim to none.

But this is not the only issue that I've encountered with public bathrooms. Today in the McDonald's by Port de Clignancourt, the bathroom I went into had the standard sink on the outside of the cabin deal, but on the toilet-side of the door, there were actually two toilets. Right next to each other. As if you're going to pee right next to someone you don't know. Like as if you're not going to lock the door behind you, and when someone knocks, or walks in, just offer them the toilet beside you hospitibly.

Domestically, the bathroom situation shifts from toilet troubles to shower issues. The toilet differences are basically limited to the flusher being in a totally different place than you're used to in America, but you get used to this fairly soon, except for on those nights when you've had too much wine and it takes you five minutes before you finally give up. But then, you shouldn't have drunk so much wine. Also, sometimes, to keep you on your toes, your toilet will have two flushers: one is a big flush and one is a little flush. I assume this is a measure taken to conserve water, because you aren't always taking "business calls" when you visit the toilet. Theoretically, this is a great idea. But honestly, don't even waste your time on the little flush, because it doesn't take down anything. It is my belief that the little flush just swishes you pee around with some more water, and makes you think that your toilet is clean until the next time someone poops.

I digress. Back to the defining issue of the at-home bathroom: The shower.

The main issue of the at-home bathroom experience is definitely the shower, because it would seem that, although France might be eons ahead of America in terms of commuter civil engineering and cell phone technology, they are in a metaphorical stoneage when it comes to shower sciences. Firstly, the prevalence of bath-taking here is rather disturbing. Where I come from, baths are for kids and ladies who have had stressful days. Kramer put it best when he described bath-taking for cleaning purposes as really counterproductive, as microbes and dirt organisms having sex all around you while you bathe in your own filth. Gross.

But even aside from this, fairly standard in the French shower scenario is a hand-held shower-head thing that doesn't eventually end up mounted on a wall. So you have to hold the shower-head the whole time you're in there.

Problems that arise from this setup, as you can imagine, is what to do with the shower-head while you're lathering up your hair. Where to put it when you're sudsing your body? And lastly, how much confidence would you put into your awareness of where all the water is going to at all times? One false move and your bathroom becomes as disgusting as a public pool, but without the over-chlorination (and peace of mind that no fungus could survive that level of chemical intoxication).

As my roommates and I found out this weekend, after ameliorating our own apartment in terms of bathroom science, is that the perfect washroom situation resembles that of a North American washroom than a French bathroom, wall mounted shower-head and all.

And this includes the innovative, if not conceptually mysterious contraption that is a bidet.

The Killers at the Bataclan in Paris, November 14, 2006