The Bidet, and other Bathroom Favorites

A couple of bathroom memories from my year in Firenze…these are all little anecdotes – feel free to add if you have a fun bathroom story

When we moved in to our apartment, our bathroom did not have a shower curtain. We asked our landlord, who upon speaking to the plumber called me to inform me that they could not put up “the tent.” (Francesco was one of the sweetest landlords I have ever had – always accommodating and willing to help). Instead he said he would put up what he referred to as “a plastic wall”. Up until the minute they finished putting it up I had absolutely no idea what he was referring too. Our “plastic wall” resembled a screen that suffered from stunted growth and covered almost the entire length of the tub away from the wall. It definitely kept our floor cleaner! No more spraying the handheld shower out of control (which by this point through a series of contraptions was mounted on the wall, also courtesy of Francesco).

One of the things that remains with me so long after my return from Italy is the infamous “bidet”. This structure adorned every private bathroom I ever saw. It originates from a French word and was originally used by prostitutes to clean themselves (I guess between one client and the next). Personally I never cared much for the little toilet like form that sat next to the washing machine in our bathroom. I wasn’t sure if any of the roommates actually did use it, and the idea of cleaning it after countless strangers who had rented our flat (well maybe not countless since we were the second tenants of the apartment) and my own roommates had used it grossed me out just a little bit. I have nothing against people who use them, I’m just very obsessive-compulsive when it comes to the toilet facilities I use.

The one things that the Italians have definitely right, at least in Florence, was the whole public hygiene issue. It is disgusting to have to touch things in public bathrooms – you have no idea who’s touched them before you and where they’ve been. The idea gives me the creeps. However they have a way around it…foot pedals. You never actually have to touch the taps in order to turn them on, you just use the foot pedal provided. Same thing for garbage. You don’t have to open the garbage disposal – the foot pedal does it for you! It’s brilliant! I think everywhere should adopt that policy. Especially after witnessing a public bathroom at Prospect Park this past July 4….ewww is all I can say!

Picture courtesy of http://www.cadetstuff.org/images/iace_1970_bidet.jpg

The Arno

Sunlight splashes on the horizon

Of buzzing mosquitoes and flapping bats

Encased in the serenity of a

Drowsy city sliced evenly in two

By liquid scissors swelling and contracting

With thundery showers of wetness,

Murky waters bubbling hard and fresh.

On one side, the fresh crispness of central

Park, the human vacuum of the Tuesday

Morning market, and the smooth soft curve of

The dome, on the other, the edge of

The city, Belvedere lurking deep

In the hills and Michelangelo’s

Piazzale, from which like God, you can

See the world.

Arriving in Florence

Flying to Florence was probably the scariest day of my life. Armed with too much luggage and no confidence I left for the airport after everyone was gone. My father, my brother. My mother waited alone outside the airport to say good-bye after I checked in. This was new, a fresh experience, an adventure! Yet I could not explain the overwhelming sadness that engulfed me, that I was alienated from all I knew. After paying excessive over-weight baggage fees (who knew the requirements outside of the United States were that different?!? Twenty kilos for all your luggage as opposed to fifty pounds a piece. That’s more than double!!), getting through immigration and security, I boarded the plane.

The flight seemed never-ending. I looked back at all the things I’d forgotten to do – something that’s of little use when you’re sitting on the plane! I had brought the keys to my closet. I had left one glasses case. I had a random assortment of possessions that I had dumped into my bags, not knowing which I would need and which I would not. I was exhausted, my eyes dry from the crying (only partially due to sadness and partially due to stress). I slept for random intervals, waking up feeling worse than I started.

Upon arriving in Frankfurt I was running. My flight landed at 7:15, my next flight boarded at 7:20. I ran through the airport, having to go through European Union Security in order to get on my next flight. Fortunately it did not take off till 7:55. I reached the gate at 7:40. But I had no time to call home, a fact that was extremely upsetting to me. I was one of the last people to make it there. I got on a shuttle bus that took us to what seemed the end of the airport world. I finally got on the plane and collapsed.

Looking back, I realized it was familiarity I missed. This was all so new and terrifying. I was afraid of that which I did not know or understand. Too much change in too little time. I counseled myself to be strong. To be calm. I tried to open my mind and let it in. Tried to let this newness, this thing I was suspicious of. That took some time.

Upon arriving in Florence two things were apparent. One: although I was in Florence, my baggage wasn’t. Second, the Italian airport baggage claim did not seem in too much of a hurry to do anything about it. I stood in the three person line for what seemed like ages, while the person inside the booth switched between attending to us, attending to another booth that led outside, and disappearing completely for extended periods of time. When it was finally my turn, I filled out the paper work and pointed to what looked like my suitcase in the catalogue they showed to people. Finally I took my carry-on luggage and headed towards the door. The airport security official waved me by. But wait…I had waited to get this stupid visa at 6 am, I wasn’t going to pretend it didn’t exist now! I waved my passport at him as if to say, “You sure you don’t wanna see this?? I could be an illegal immigrant infiltrating your safe secure country! I could be a threat to national security!” He still wasn’t interested. I can’t remember now if he glanced at it or not, but whatever it was he took little or no interest in it at all.

A third thing was apparent as soon as I reached the door. I should have taken an Italian class before getting here. There was a pool of taxis outside and I did not know which of them I could get into. They were all empty and in some formation of a line, but I couldn’t make head or tail of it. I wandered around for a little while feeling lost. I finally found a woman in a taxi that pointed me to the front. I practiced what I had taught myself (Via Montebello, Numero Sette) – My first little piece of Italian. I felt like Carrie in Paris, at that point -ready to take on the world!