The Time I Was Outsmarted by Cockroaches

At the risk of  giving you all the impression that my home is a dirty, roach-infested wasteland, I present a horror story so foul that will make you want to go to sleep with the lights on... so those little insects have the keen sense of not emerging from their daytime hiding spots when everyone is asleep in the dark. As everyone knows, cockroaches are the Keebler Elves of the insect world.

If you are mortified of roaches, please find your softest and most cuddly teddy bear before you start to read. Or skip reading this post altogether.

Still here? Okay. Let's continue.

It doesn't matter how intelligent I am, nor that I have a college degree that proves I am a cultured, literate young woman: experiences with the animal kingdom inevitably show that I can't control my very instinctive and human reactions.

One late evening (technically, it was very early morning), I made my way to use the sole bathroom that is in my apartment. Since I do not live alone, I have the habit of locking the door to prevent any mishaps of someone walking in on me. The locking mechanism of said bathroom's door shuts with the push of a button. This is easier for my grandmother so she doesn't have to struggle to twist something minuscule with her shaky fingers.

Anyway, over the years, I have developed a fairly mindless procedure for entering the bathroom. I open the door, I turn on the light switch and, still having the door open, I lock it.

But that late evening, something was different. When I looked up at the ceiling and glanced around the walls, I realized that I was not alone.

I saw not one.

Not two.

But THREE cockroaches crawling on the bathroom walls, all at least 2 inches /5 cm long.

Now, I am not one to become squeamish at seeing roaches because I don't have a particular phobia against them, and growing up in Florida only helped me to get accustomed to seeing all sorts of animals invade my home: ants, roaches, Anole lizards, even the odd snake or two. Hanny, my blogging partner-in-crime, can certainly confirm that when it comes to killing those dastardly insects, I will be the one to step forward and destroy them with steel resolve.

I'll admit that I cringed momentarily when I was confronted by three of them at once in the bathroom, yet was determined to not be conquered by these ghastly intruders and let them get the better of me.

Still, their sheer size alone should have been an indication, nay, a warning, that they had weathered enough difficulties in their tough, roachy lives to have survived to grow that large.

It didn't matter that I was at least 32 times taller than they were and outweighed them by maybe 500 times their body weight; when those menacing creatures spread their wings and kamikazed off their horizontal perches straight at my face, all bets were off.

Oh, the joys of living in Florida. We get heat, humidity, hurricanes, thunderstorms, the occasional tornado and congregating flying roaches that participate in monthly meetings of "scare-the-crap-outta-humans."

Fearing that those little, brown, turd-shaped bastards were going to kill me, I shut the door in instinctive fright and created a barricade that separated me from the trio of evil flying roaches.

A locked barricade.

Yes, I had slammed the door shut. With the lock set in place. To the only bathroom in the entire apartment. I refer to this scenario as a classic "oh, shit" moment.

The second I realized that I had locked myself out, it was as if my life of having access to a bathroom  flashed before my eyes and horrid thoughts of impending doom filled my head. "How am I going to shower? Or brush my teeth? My shampoo is in there!  Where am I supposed to pee? MY PAUL MITCHELL HAIR MOUSSE IS TRAPPED IN THERE! NOOOOOO!!! I MUST SAVE IT FROM THE ROACHES!!!"

On the bright side, no matter how much heaving and pushing I did against the door, I can confirm that the lock works perfectly at keeping it shut. This will prove to be extremely useful when I take cover in the bathroom from the robbers, rapists and serial killers who are sure to invade my home one of these nights.

However, I couldn't let the bathroom stay shut forever. There had to be some way to wrench it open. As I took a deep breath to control the panic that had seeped into my nervous system, I leaned down and observed the door knob. I noticed that it had a very small hole. One that needed to be pierced by a small wire of some sort. I gasped. This was going to be my chance to practice all of the cool stuff that I had seen on T.V.!

First, I tried to open the door by poking the hole with a bobby pin. That didn't work.Then I MacGyverred a trombone-shaped paper clip into a spear and fidgeted with the hole for a few minutes.

But it was no use. I was going to need the key. Thus my promising career as a world-class jewelry heist thief was dashed because a lock and three roaches foiled me. The only question remaining for me was: where was the key? I had a vague knowledge that the key did exist. Somewhere. In my apartment.

The only person with that knowledge was Mom and I didn't want to wake her up at 2 a.m. Feeling like a rather useless child instead of a fully-functioning adult, I wrang my hands and nervously danced on the spot. What was I going to do? What was going to happen?

When I thought that I would sink into my deepest despair, a totally anonymous, costumed avenger appeared next to me with a key. Oddly enough, she had my mother's build and short hair-style. She didn't say much, only revealing that she called herself Super Mom. She inserted her magical golden key into the door knob and saved the day.

Seeing that a little ol' sissy coward like me had been traumatized by the disgusting roaches, Super Mom bucked up and charged into the bathroom with a broom. Soon, my dreaded enemies were defeated in three fell swoops.

It's moments like these that make me wish that I were half of the woman Super Mom is. I may be twenty-five years old, but I honestly don't know what I would do without her courage, guidance and foresight. Super Mom is my hero.

I also add that this experience of locking myself out of the bathroom has made me question whether or not I am fit to survive in the world alone (the fact that I still live at home further proves this point). I mean, having a job and paying the bills is the easy part, but should that fateful day when I become independent come, who will be there to exterminate kamikaze roaches for me? My flip-flop? Raid bug spray? The Exterminator, the Terminator's much-less-well-known cousin?

Barb the French Bean

Monsoon Showers and the WTF Toilets (AKA Some More French Bathroom Humor)

(For the first bathroom-related post, click the link here.)

Allow me to start of this post with an obvious declaration of how French bathrooms are to the unsuspecting American:

They are weird.

No, seriously. French bathrooms are just weird.

I have been to quite a number of houses in which the bathroom in question will have the toilet built apart from the bathroom itself. In one room, you may have the sink, either a shower or a bathtub with detachable showerhead (more on that later) and, in a state of rarity, the notorious toilet-like bidet. Then, the actual contraption that flushes out natural impurities will be isolated in its own little room.

After having lived in France for a year, the shock of using separate facilities won't even make me bat an eye, but in the very beginning, I could not help but wonder what a strange country I had found myself in.

Seriously, who thought this up? I suppose that if you are living with other people, having the toilet apart from the shower and sink is a rather logical thing, especially in those crucial moments when one person desperately needs to go and simply can't because another person has locked himself to take a bath and thus resorts to doing the universal "I-gotta-pee" jig.

Yet I associate toilets with privacy. Bathrooms are private places. It is only logical to group the toilet with the bidet.

Oh, wait.

Privacy? In France? Ha, ha! That silly notion goes down the drain! Ever heard of the expression "the walls have ears?" I sincerely think that it originated from the fact that French bathrooms have very, very thin walls that echo every bump, grunt, sigh, smack and groan that are emitted by whoever is in it.

Oh yes. French bathrooms, unlike the well-thought-out, discreet soundproof American ones, are in-your-face. Even to this day, I admit that I feel rather uncomfortable when I hear a questionable noise that passes through the walls to my ears. Do you know how self-conscious I feel when I think about other people who can hear everything that I do when I use French facilities?

Whatever. I'm in France. I should be more open to the fact that the French are not embarrassed by natural bowel movements.

But I can't help it! It's simply not in my American nature.

During one lesson with my French high schoolers, I showed the differences between some British English and American English words. I decided to make the activity a game. I wrote down each word, had the students guess which word pertained to which country and then had them figure out the French equivalent. I inevitably talked about "bathroom" vs. "loo."

Ha, ha. Well, you're wrong, pal.

I then explained how in American English, "bathroom" is euphemism for "toilet."

Let's see. I've covered isolated toilets and thin walls. Now, about those detachable showerheads: how do you expect little ol' clumsy me to deftly maneuver my body in a 2x2 space as I clutch a spouting Niagara Falls in one hand and cup a wad of shampoo in the other? It simply can't be done. I can't take a shower without flooding the entire bathroom floor! I even had the habit of leaving a mop so I could soak up the water splattered all over the ground. I wish I were even kidding about this. I've gotten better with time at containing the water within the shower space. The lake that used to form has now shrunk to a puddle.

Despite all the oddities found in home bathrooms, I still am floored by the (rare) public toilets that one finds over here. I credit the topic of this post to the question an anonymous student asked my French BFF Mimi:

"What is the English for toilettes turques?"

Mimi couldn't give an answer, so she asked me. I couldn't give an answer because toilettes turques are simply non-existent in Miami. In fact, the very first time that I saw a toilettes turques was in 2008, in a small town in France.

I still remember that fateful day. Rather than being greeted by a white, porcelain throne, I unsuspectingly came face-to-face with what can be described as an ingenious invention: ceramic tiles decorating a hole in the ground. Since I hail from a First World country, my initial reaction to seeing such a starkly primitive device in an advanced nation was utter shock and dismay. How was I supposed to pee over this...this...THING? I remember that I my poor bladder was close to bursting and that I had no choice but to figure it out.

That intriguing moment had been safely stored in my recollections until Mimi brought up the question.

I honestly had no idea what the name for it in English is. I even tried to look it up and came across such obvious entries as "hole-in-the-ground toilet."

However, I prefer to christen the toilettes turques with a title they so clearly merit: a WTF toilet. When you see it, you ask "What the Fuck is this?!"

Our conversation about the lack of porcelain throne progressed.

"Do you know what the French for 'Outhouse' is?" Mimi asked. "Une cabane. Literally, a cabin. There is even a song written about this called La Cabane au Fond du Jardin, which means 'the cabin at the end of the garden.'"

What? There is a song written about this? At that point, I couldn't contain myself. I burst into laughter.

"Ah, that's what I love about the French language: it is just so damn poetic! Whereas in English, the word is quite plain: it is an out house. Why is it an outhouse? Because the toilet is at the exterior of the house!"

Mimi and I completely broke down into a fit of uncontrollable whoops.

Barb the French Bean

Some French Bathroom Humor, Or: Trying to Find a Free Potty

Let's face it: Everyone has to use the bathroom. Purging one's body of wastes and toxins is one of the most basic of natural needs (akin to breathing and eating). Yet when you have the chance to escape your familiar surroundings to, say, vacation abroad, the "gotta go" aspect of life is either placed on the back burner or heightened by a thousand-fold.

Perhaps you have heard complaints from unsuspecting tourists who have visited Croissant-and-Baguetteland that you absolutely have to pay money to take care of your business.


This, for the most part, is not too far from the truth, quite honestly...


BUT that does not mean you have to pay your hard-earned money EVERYTIME you have to pee in France.

So, arm yourself with the most important question you will need during your trip to France: "Où sont les toilettes?" (Ooh sohn lay twalet), and embark on your worry-free journey!

For FREE (or semi-free) bathrooms:


1) Your hotel room bathroom.


I mean, sure, you have to pay for the hotel stay, but you can use your bathroom before you leave. My suggestion is that you DON'T drink too many fluids before you head out to explore the city.

2) If you are visiting a proper French city with a sizeable population (like Dijon), try out the Office de Tourisme. Their bathrooms should be free and you can also pick up a couple of maps to navigate your way around town.





For Dijon, the "WC Gratuit" is found outside of the actual office, just around the corner. "WC" stands for "Water Closet," a term which apparently originated in Britain (so said my high school French teacher).




And I simply have to share this with y'all: as I stood with the camera poised directly on the "WC Gratuit" sign, a Frenchman, who clearly thought that I was a stupid, non-French speaking tourist (instead of a Dijonnaise-native blogger), walked past and commented to his girlfriend about how idiotic I looked taking a photograph of a public bathroom. I wanted to retort saying "hey buddy, I found a FREE PUBLIC BATHROOM in France. That is a rarity which is worth eternal conservation!", but he was already out of earshot.

3) If you sit down to eat at a restaurant or café, DO remember to take the opportunity and use the bathroom. I've been to some Parisien restaurants where you have had to pay to use their loos. In Dijon, they should be free.

4) If you are truly desperate and really, really, really gotta go...try the self-cleaning toilettes that are shaped like a futuristic booth. Like this one:



(In case you were wondering: I have used one of these before, and they are fairly clean. Just don't expect any toilet paper. What is meant by "self-cleaning" is that they do clean themselves in regular 15-minute intervals. When the cleaning happens, try to NOT be trapped inside it.)

I must also say that you may not encounter these booths on a regular basis. You may see them around Paris's most famous tourist traps but for some reason, the French have deemed it a good idea to place them in rather obscure areas where most tourists would not think of venturing. For example, the booth in the picture above is located in a tiny parking lot that is between a very narrow street; hardly anyone passes by it. So it is almost as good as if it didn't even exist.


5) When all else fails for your cheapskate self, just do like the drunk 20-something locals do and pee in the bushes at a public park. Please note: I DO NOT RECOMMEND THIS.


In the end, after undergoing so much hassle just to find a free bathroom, most tourists just give in and accept that paying 20 or even 50 cents to make their bodily deposits is just an easier (if not better) option.


I must also add that, should you be fortunate enough to experience it at a crowded bathroom that has a coin-operated door, the French have a surreptitious system in which one person pays to open the door and then everyone else just takes his or her turn. They will even HOLD the door for you to prevent it from closing behind them and thus cause you to waste 20 or 50 cents.


But, for whatever reason, I HIGHLY ADVISE that you always try to keep a 20 cent and a 50 cent coin stored somewhere in your little change purse. This is due to the fact that some public restroom doors are operated by a coin machine and the only way of going inside one is to pay with a coin of the amount required.

Don't feel bad if the uncomfortably irksome moment of not having the right change happens to you. Even a lives-in-France veteran like me has had the unfortunate experience to be walking around in a desert of non-bathroomness and be stuck without the proper money needed for an immediate transaction.


The Setting: Dijon's Rue de la Liberté



The Time: Nearly midday
State of My Bladder: Overly confident

I had just arrived in the Centre Ville after temporily leaving my job to grab a bite to eat. Since I had sagely chosen to pee before leaving my area of employment, I didn't expect to find myself to embark on an immediate quest to find a bathroom. The level on my personal Pee Gauge was this:

But as it was, I had drunk far too many fluids earlier that morning for my own good. By the time I had waited 12 minutes at the bus stop then spent another 20 minutes going Downtown, the state of my Pee Gauge had dramatically elevated to this:



My need to have lunch was temporarily placed on the back burner as the need to find a clean toilet decidedly took precedence.


As I mentioned in this post, Rue de la Liberté is a street that is filled with plenty of shops. Most French shops will not have a bathroom for shoppers. Now, if shopping in the good ol' U.S. of A. has taught me anything, it is that most places do have a public restroom on the premises. I could easily walk anywhere and ask to use the bathroom. This mentality is starkly different from the French one. As the French see it, you are going into their stores to shop, not pee. Walk into a small boutique and ask where their bathroom is; you will promptly be directed to go somewhere else.

In the trained American mindset, if you want to use a free available bathroom, all you have to do is to go straight to your neighborhood McDonald's and discreetly sneak in to use their lavatories. I reasoned that the concept would be the same for a French McDonald's.




Unfortunately, I went in at a time when other people had the intention of eating. LOTS of people.


Unlike some U. S. Mickey D's that only have chirping crickets as their sole customers, French McDonald's are PACKED at nearly every hour. Especially 12 o'clock. For the French, lunch is the heaviest meal of the day and it should never be skipped.


Fat chance that I was gonna sneak in successfully: McDonald's had one of their hired goons asking all the hungry French McFatties what they wanted to eat.

Well, it was true. I didn't want to eat at McDonald's.

I glanced across Rue de la Liberté to what I expected would become my second beacon of toilet hope: GALERIES LAFAYETTE. I vaguely remembered that the one in Paris had free bathrooms, so I decided to give the Dijon GL a shot.


I walked in and found the elevator. Which took a long time to get to my floor.


A. VERY. LONG. TIME.

Ever notice how with every little delay that impedes you from going to the bathroom, your urge to go jolts sharply up a notch in an instant? I honestly felt like I was just going to wet myself in that elevator!

But no. I simply had to hold it. It would only just be a mere few seconds until I would be able to relieve myself.

The elevator doors opened. I rushed to the public restroom door. Lo and behold, I saw this:





The bastard.



Yes, this did yank at my insides, but at that point, I simply DID NOT CARE that I had to shell out a 20 euro cent coin. I was more than willing to do so.

I angrily fumbled with my handbag and extracted my change purse. The coins jingled unto the palm of my trembling hand.

Out of all these coins, which one would fit in the 20 euro cent machine?

That's right. NONE.


Why did I just have to drink so much water that it overloaded my bladder? I NEEDED TO GO. And I needed to go NOW.

What was I going to do?!

Suddenly, a moment of ingenuity: I'm in a store! There are cash registers in this store and cashiers who handle the registers! I'll just ask them to do an exchange of two 10-cent coins for one of 20 cents!

Prize in hand, I rushed back to the coin-operated contraption, viciously yanked at the taunting door handle and...





...saw a line of women waiting to use the two occupied toilets.



Amazingly, I didn't pee right on the spot. It truly was a miracle that I was able to wait my turn.


Why didn't I just walk to the Office de Tourisme, which had free toilets? Why didn't I go look for the futuristic booth? My mind wasn't thinking about neither the Office de Tourisme nor the booth; it was set on FINDING A BATHROOM.



So, in short, when in France, always have some spare change to use the bathroom.



ALWAYS.



Barb the French Bean