règle provisoire n°11
The French Toilet Door
I have long suspected that nations reveal their deepest beliefs not in their constitutions or cathedrals, but in the design of their toilets.
France, for example, has given the world Voltaire, Descartes, and the crème brûlée. It has also given the world the toilet door that opens outwards. This sounds trivial until you encounter one. A lifetime of conditioning teaches us that a toilet cubicle is a tiny sovereign state. You enter, close the door, lock it, and establish temporary independence from the rest of humanity.
The door should therefore open inwards. This is not merely architecture. It is psychology. The inward-opening door creates a defensive perimeter. Should a stranger attempt entry, the occupant has several advantages. One's knees, feet and body weight can all be brought into play in a last stand for dignity.
The French have looked at this arrangement and rejected it. Their toilet doors open outwards. This means that if someone on the outside succeeds in opening the lock, the door swings majestically away from you, leaving you with absolutely no tactical options whatsoever. There is no possibility of resistance. You cannot brace the door with your foot. You cannot lean against it. You cannot even pretend nothing is happening. Like a defeated army, you simply witness events unfolding.
I discovered this while visiting a small café. Having locked the cubicle, I noticed immediately that the arrangement required a remarkable degree of trust in the mechanism. My entire sense of security rested upon a small metal latch that appeared to have been manufactured during the Second Empire. The lock looked thoughtful but unconvinced.
As I sat there, I found myself wondering what would happen if it failed. In Ireland the answer would be manageable. One would naturally throw a shoulder against the inward-opening door and preserve the situation. In France, however, the geometry is all wrong. Once the door begins moving, history is against you. The only defence is optimism. And optimism strikes me as a strange foundation upon which to build a toilet.
Yet perhaps this explains something important about the French character. The French seem unusually comfortable with uncertainty. They drink wine whose labels they cannot entirely decipher. They park cars with millimetres to spare. They conduct political arguments that last generations. Why should their toilets be any different? The outward-opening door is essentially a declaration that control is an illusion. You may lock it, certainly. You may hope.
Ultimately you must accept that life contains risks. At any moment the door may swing open and reveal you to a curious waiter, a confused tourist, or an entire school tour from Belgium. One cannot live in fear of such things. One must embrace existence. This is, after all, the country that invented existentialism. Elsewhere people enter a toilet seeking privacy. In France, one enters a toilet and receives a philosophical education. The lesson is simple. You are not as secure as you think. The lock is weaker than it appears. Dignity is temporary. And every door, sooner or later, opens outwards. (règle provisoire n°11).
✒️ Sigi