Cindy-Lou Dale

I still have difficulty in appreciating the European concept of forking out cash to use the loo; but let’s not forget that we need to take in other cultures and embrace our differences. Or so my 13-year old daughter keeps telling me. And lets be honest, I’m certain most of us have experienced times when we'd pay just about anything to use a toilet.

 

When the January sales arrived, my two teenagers and I were ready to do our share for Belgium’s economy, having carefully planned our onslaught on Leuven’s stores, which we had scouted the day before. Armed with an assortment of credit cards and ready to black belt our way through the fabulous boutiques, we entered one of the trendiest teenage fashion stores on the mall. I gravitated towards the sales rails and the kids towards the new arrivals.

 

I shuddered when I heard a single voice levitate above the quiet murmurings of the other shoppers; an insufferable monotone mid-western American whine, "My Gawd! Wotcha look at this, Claire?" All the urban diva’s on the floor looked over to see a rotund orange haired lady in a baggy sweat suit and tennis shoes holding up a skirt numerous sizes too small for her. Her shopping companion, Claire, who favoured deep purple, resembled a rebellious teenager of advanced years with ear- nose- lip- and eyebrow rings, and a bathroom chain linking them all together. The hoochy mama continued, "Did ya see deez prices here?"

 

I rolled my eyes to the ceiling when my daughter approached and was reminded to embrace our cultural differences. Feeling somewhat chastised and I wandered across to my deeply misunderstood 18-year old son who was looking decidedly uncomfortable at the Levi’s rail. He announced that he needed to ‘go’.

 

Typical! I thought. He’s been up for three hours but now, five minutes into the biggest sale of the year, he needs to go to the toilet. In hindsight I suppose it’s inescapable; no matter how much we may try to ignore the urge, when you need to go, well, you need to go and by the look on my son’s face, I think he was fast approaching that time.

 

I stand corrected but the only public toilets I have spotted in Leuven are those that are coin operated and automatic; but I’ve also noted that only one appears to work.

 

I frog marched my kids in the general direction of the Cathedral in who’s proximity one such a loo is located; and as my son had, as far as I knew, never used one of these high-tech self cleaning toilets before, I explained how they worked.

 

A few years ago I had a liberating experience with a similar futuristic and automated loo, complete with mood music. After feeding it the required coinage, the door opens automatically and you walk into a newly disinfected wet floored toilet. Actually, the whole toilet is decontaminated and dosed with disinfectant following each use, leaving a wet seat. You have fifteen minutes to go, so there is no hanging about as the door automatically open, exposing you to the world – as I, and the passing traffic, had discovered in Paris.

 

My son either chose to ignore my advice or had not been listening when I explained how they worked and thought he could save a few coins by ducking in when someone exited. The door closed, with him inside. I could gather from the lively and confused sounds emanating from within the steel box, that he was being sanitised -- the toilet had received no payment so thought it was empty and retracted the toilet bowl into the wall, then sprayed itself with green sterilizer.

 

“Well, it was inevitable really,” he agreed, as he stepped over the threshold of the Star Trek loo, nobly holding his head high. “I’ve survived rattle snakes, nests of copperheads, coyotes, hillbillies, fire ants, even poison ivy. I was bound to lose out eventually.”

 

My daughter nodded solemnly in agreement. “Fortunately it was only to a Belgian loo.”

 

I take great comfort in my children’s global outlook on the world.

 

(c) Cindy-Lou Dale 2006

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