09:00 • 25 June 2022
Eschatology is not my forte nor do I pretend that this article goes along those lines, but the dissection of the public and private toilets that I have come across throughout my eventful existence does not prevent me from making a kind of treatise on walk home bathrooms.
I have known toilets clean as a whistlewith gleaming toilets that invited a relaxing foam bath, in the style of Julia Roberts in the film beautiful woman, but without Julia Roberts. In the same way, I have stumbled upon others dark and decadenttiled at the time of Tell me and with faucets late Pleistocene. Some, like on a trip to Lisbon to see some friends during college, it even had a hole and a crust of rust in the bathtub. You know, those nasty student flats where neatness isn’t the norm, but even worse. EITHER those of certain bars that provoke another reading: if they are that dirty, imagine the kitchen…
Although we have improved a lot when it comes to comfort, the feng shui does not finish curdling in these spaces. You see it in those toilet bowls where the lids don’t stay on top and you’re forced to do contortions, holding with one hand and, well, you know, trying to hit. Or those other covers resting on the button of the cistern, which is on the wall and, therefore, force you to take toilet paper to separate the cover and press the button once you have finished your obligations, because one is before all polite and civic.
Then there are the tiny bathrooms, where the distance between the toilet bowl and the door is so small that you have to enter sideways, glued to the toilet, but without staining your pants, and again with the contortions. And what about the urinals, which I would eliminate from the face of the Earth no matter how comfortable they are. The word itself is already unpleasant (just like those people who bluntly proclaim: “I’m going to pee”). By the way, I agree that the average height of Spanish men has increased in recent decades, but in some places they are placed so high that it seems to many of us an ordeal, which has to be said, gosh.
And the sinks? Gentlemen interior decorators, what is it to put sink faucets and rusty sink bodies as if we had returned to the forties of the last century? They still need to attach a hose to the mouth of the tap to water the plants in the bar and, incidentally, the customers.
Lastly, I can’t forget about the bathroom signs. In certain places they have wanted to be so modern that when you arrive you have to stop for a while to decipher which one is the mens and which of the women, as if it were a game, while you are holding back doing the San Vito dance. So you end up in whatever it is and when you leave, if you have entered the ladies’ room, a woman with a scowling face recriminates you, as if you were forced to understand the hieroglyphs that moderns have put in the toilets instead of the posters that never offer doubts: ladies and gentlemenskirt and pants or, in any case, the symbols of Mars and Venusalthough I am afraid that the latter also has its detractors due to sheer ignorance.