A long time ago, during the tail end of the occupation in Germany, I was a green young kid in the Army. I never got use to the European attitude towards relieving ones self. You could drive down a main road that always had walkways, even in the country, and men, women and children would simply stop walking and take care of their business in full view of everyone in the area. During beer fests the men’s bathroom was a piece of canvas about a foot wide suspended from sticks at the appropriated height and positioned right in the cobblestone streets over a drain. My first trip to Paris I arrived in dire need of a toilet. I spied a public facility and raced to a stall. There was no toilet paper. I learned that by ringing the little bell an old woman would open the door and give you a little piece of a cross between cardboard and paper…one at a time.
