Passed a storefront in Montpelier today, saw a sign posted prominently on the door stating forcefully that the restrooms on premises were ONLY for customers, anyone else had to use the public facilities in the City Center building, diagonally across the so-called downtown's one big intersection (State and Main, natch). Reminding me of one of the countless things I love about Spain: anyone can go into any restaurant, bar or tavern and use the facilities, no problem. I've yet to see a person walking in off the street to take a whiz (or, er, whatever) refused entry to the washroom or given a hard time. Might be that it happens in some places, but I've never witnessed it.
Thinking about that got my bladder feeling frisky, I headed over to City Center to dump the ballast. As I stood at the loo's one urinal, minding my own business, I heard someone enter behind me, talking to himself. He walked by, entered the single toilet stall, closed the door, began answering the call to nature, the steady muttering too low for me to be able to make out any words over the noise from the room's ventilation system. He didn't talk like a happy chappy, however. More like someone unhappy, aggrieved.
I finished, went to wash up. The wash basin area looked like a sloppy piece of conceptual art. The sink to the left contained a sizeable pile of coffee-stained ice cubes, the sink to the right contained a big wad of sodden paper towel, the counter lay awash in puddled water.
When I left, the self-talker in the toilet stall was still at it.
We're a strange bunch, we human males.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The spillway, North Montpelier Pond, after the wettest May on record
España, te echo de menos.
rws 6:44 PM [+]
Comments:
Post a Comment