Piss in the Piscine

Yesterday afternoon, seeking a little healthy exploration and adventure, we headed 20 minutes north to Saint Seurin sur L'Isle, where we'd heard they have a really good public pool. Kepler loves swimming, and with our own pool in its current state we decided to look farther afield than our own back yard.

And it's true, they have a really nice pool there, with a couple of jacuzzis, a hammam, and a really kickin' waterslide.

But despite these deluxe amenities, it was a bit of a bizarre experience nonetheless.

Our first obstacle came immediately upon entry. Because they have a "no shorts" rule. And by "shorts", it turns out they mean "swim suits" too. I had come prepared with my swimming trunks, the same old trusty pair I've had since diving in Puerto Rico in April 2000. There's nothing special about them, they're black, a pair of small diving flags are embroidered on one side, there's a nylon meshy liner, and there's not much else to them. They're quite thin, designed to be comfortably worn inside a wetsuit. But as we approached the front desk to check ourselves in, the lady took one look, and shook her head.

"No shorts," she said.

"These aren't shorts, it's a swimsuit," I told her. I showed her the liner, the little diving flags, etc. She shook her head again.

"No shorts," she said, "it's a normal rule, the same as in Libourne, Bordeaux, Paris, everywhere. No shorts in the pool."

Now, we've all seen Europeans at the beach with their speedos, and we've all mocked them for their utter lack of embarrassment in that regard. How could it seem like a good idea for an obese, elderly man to go out in full public view wearing only a piece of clothing so inadequately small that beneath his overhanging gut it's impossible to tell whether he is in fact wearing anything at all? I'm no puritan, but who could want to flaunt their flacidity like that?

But now I understand, at least a little bit, why these guys think it's ok: because at the public pools in France, it's required attire. That's right: it's a lycra-only world in there, enshrined in policy, and enforced by the strict lady at the door. For the French, swimming is normally apparently an exercise in genital exposure, and there's no getting around it. My friend Max in his wisdom once told me that "spandex should be a privilege, and not a right." But here, in the public pool, it's neither: it's an obligation. Incredible. According to the small print of the rules posted on the wall, wearing anything else is "fundamentally incompatible with public hygiene" and is therefore interdit.

What could I do? Kepler and Sarah were eager to get into the water, and with the offer of a loaner-speedo from the desk lady ("don't worry, they're clean," she said. Talk about fundamental imcompatibility with hygiene!), I had no easy cop-out, no option but to acquiesce. So off we headed to the changing stalls.

I have never worn a speedo before. And I must say that, even in the spirit of trying new things, it wasn't nice. At all. I don't even wear underpants this small. Talk about exposure. Far from mandatory, I can't believe these things are allowed. It has nothing to do with my feelings about my body; in fact, given the situation, I don't think I looked all that bad:

But that's not the point. The point is that, as I slunk first into the shower and then into the water, I was very uncomfortable. I think I would have preferred to be naked, actually, than to wear this stretchy little bikini-bottom. There's something not only inadequate, but downright ridiculous about it.

As I bathed, I wondered what the lady would have said if I had instead leaned over the desk to her and said to her, in a quiet, confidential tone, "Well, you see, Madame, I have a small problem in this regard. I'm not showing off or anything, but, well, my, ah-um, zizi is, frankly, a bit, shall we say, self-exaggerated. More like a pony's really. Now, these trunks that I've brought with me, they have a liner, which allows me to discretely strap myself down, so to speak. But this speedo you're offering me, well, I'm afraid it just won't give me the level of, how shall I put it, propriety, that a family event might demand."

I'd've loved to see the look on her face then.

But in any event, we got on with the swimming. And it was fun. Despite the fact that I was underdressed, and also despite the fact that we were befriended from the very first moment we entered by a very freaky 10-year-old girl.

As soon as we got into the water, literally 5 seconds in, she latched onto us. And then she wouldn't let go. She just wanted to talk, and to cuddle Kepler, despite his increasingly loud protests ("laisse-moi tranquille!") as the time wore on. She was friendly enough, but oblivious, showing no signs of recognition that maybe we didn't want her continuously and literally right up in our faces. We were allowed no personal space at all. She had one of those faces with eyes that, despite their placidity, betrayed a definite stalker-streak in the making as well. Looking at her, I could immediately and easily picture her in a few years' time, in a series of dysfunctional relationships, each ending with a freaked-out boyfriend pushing her away, followed by period of crazed stalking, which then only concludes with the beginning of a new relationship. I had only known her 10 minutes, and I wanted to push her away already. We weren't mean to her, of course; she was desperate for attention. Her mom sat in the jacuzzi, and seemed to pay no attention to her daughter during the entire time we were there. And to make matters even more sensitive, she told Sarah, without a trace of emotion and within the first 5 minutes of forced conversation, that her dad had committed suicide the previous year. How odd. She was a real close-talker too, insisting on nose-to-nose chatting when she could manage it, and making of our time there something less than the freedom-splashing experience we had hoped for. The only easy escape afforded us were our increasingly frequent trips to the top of the waterslide with Kepler. He loved it, and was grateful for the breaks from our new friend as well, even while knowing fully that she had positioned herself at the bottom of the slide to catch him as he came out every single time.

Until finally, worn out from swimming and eyes stinging from the chlorine, we made our way back to the showers. I happily peeled off the speedo I'd been loaned, got dressed, returned the speedo (yeah right, she's gonna wash it), and we headed out to the car.

But now I have a problem: I want to return to the pool with Kepler. I really do. Despite the limpet-like attentions of the 10-year-old girl ("I come here every Wednesday and Friday," she told us), he really loved it. But I don't want to buy, or own, or wear ever again, or indeed see anyone else ever wearing again, a tiny banana-sling of a swimsuit. I know that in the end, I'll probably have to, because swimming is good for him, and he's the most important thing. But jeesh: why does it have to be that way?

Maybe it's incentive for us to get our pool situation at home sorted out after all.