The Bog Blog – The Toilet Bowl Testifies
Every establishment tells you two stories. The first is the one it rehearses: the polished bar, the pressed napkins, the maître d’s practised smile. The second it tells by accident, behind a discreet door at the end of a corridor, where no one is performing anymore.
This journal is devoted to the second story.
I have long held that you can learn more about a restaurant, a hotel, or a grand old pub from its lavatory than from its menu. The menu tells you what the house wishes to be; the washroom tells you what it is. Fresh flowers by the basin speak of genuine care. A flickering bulb and a door that won’t quite lock speak of corners cut — and one wonders where else. The toilet bowl, in short, testifies.
The room itself goes by many names, of course, each with its own accent. The Americans excuse themselves to the restroom, as though a nap were on offer. The English pop to the loo, or the gents, or — in franker company — the bog. Hotels gesture vaguely towards the facilities; grander houses maintain a powder room in which no powder has been seen for decades; and the Continent settles the matter with two brisk letters on the door: WC. Whatever the sign says, the same truths wait behind it.
So on my travels — between Trier and the Isle of Man, through London, Lisbon and points between — I have begun paying attention to these overlooked conveniences, camera discreetly in hand. Every photograph here is my own; every establishment has been personally inspected, in the fullest sense of the word. Consider it fieldwork. Someone had to do it.
I invite you to join me. Wash your hands on the way out.
