A Wet Test of Character

The hotel we’re staying at right now has one of those very French shower “solutions” — a three-foot-wide glass panel, hinged to the wall, covering maybe a third of the tub. It swivels, technically, but let’s not pretend it’s protecting anything.

I’m built like a linebacker. When I shower, I’m pressed against the wall like I’m trying to avoid sniper fire, twisting my body at unnatural angles, all in the name of keeping the floor dry. It doesn’t work. It has never worked. The panel is decorative at best, aspirational at worst.

This isn’t new.

The very first time D and I visited Paris, back in the ’90s, we splurged on the InterContinental Grand Hôtel. Over $400 a night, which was wildly irresponsible for us at the time, but we were young and wanted the full Paris experience. And we got it.

Even there — in that elegant, high-ceilinged, five-star establishment — no shower curtain. Just a tub and a hose.

After one shower, the entire bathroom was soaked. Not damp. Not splashed. Soaked. The floor. The walls. The vanity. The toilet paper. It looked like someone had stood in the middle of the room doing slow, deliberate 360s with a water cannon.

When I came out, D gave me that look. You know the one. The look that says, Explain yourself. I tried. I really did. But there was no explanation that didn’t involve gesturing at my own body and saying, “Look at me. The bathroom never stood a chance.”

To be fair, things have improved slightly since then. Some places now have those tiny glass doors — a small upgrade, still wildly ineffective, but progress in the French sense: incremental, aesthetic, and in no particular hurry.

At this point, I’ve come to believe the flooding is intentional. You’re not just showering. You’re participating. In the space. In the moment. In a shared understanding that water will go where it wants, and you will deal with it afterward.

It’s not a design flaw.
It’s a philosophy.