HomeMy WebLinkAboutThe Citizen, 1996-01-31, Page 5THE CITIZEN, WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 31, 1996 PAGE 5.
The Jakes —
also known as...
Consider for a moment what a strange
piece of work is...The Jakes.
Also known as The John, The Can, The
Facilities, The Necessaries, The Retreat, The
Lay, The Bog, The Privy, The Little Room,
The Back House, The Out House, not to
mention the Men's/Women's/Public/Powder/
Rest/Bath/Wash Room.
We have an almost infinite number of
euphemisms for the room we don't like to
talk about, even though each and every one
of us visits it several times a day.
And what a room it has been down
through the ages. Ancient Romans would
have been scandalized by the primitiveness
of a simple Canadian outhousc on the
prairies. When the Romans "spent a penny"
2,000 years ago, they got their money's
worth.
Take the Baths at Carcalla. There, a
grubby citizen could doff his or her toga and
be treated to an oil massage, followed by
leisurely dips in large marble tubs filled with
hot, warm and cold water.
After that, one could visit the sweating
rooms, the hair, shampooing and body
scenting lounges, not to mention the
manicure shop, the gymnasium, the library
and the lecture rooms.
You could also look at the Baths
collection of Greek and Roman sculptures
while nibbling on hors d' oeuvres and
Running of the bulls
When I lived in Spain I could not wait to
get to my first bullfight. After I had seen it, I
resolved never to go to one again, a
resolution I have kept.
While there was something symbolic
about the whole display of man against the
bull, all the blood over the place was a bit
too much for me and my sensitivities. When
I was assured by a Spanish friend that it was
highly unlikely that I would ever see a
bullfight without blood, that was it!
However, there was another Spanish fiesta
that caught my attention and, not having yet
developed my dislike of bullfights, off I
went to see it. I refer to the fiesta de San
Fermin, which takes place in July of each
year in the northern Spanish city of
Pamplona, near the French border, and
which sees the famous running of the bulls
through the streets of that city, or more
accurately a few of the streets.
You may have seen a few seconds of it on
television, but you probably do not know all
the organization which goes into this fiesta
as far as the bulls are concerned.
The evening before the run there is the
traditional bullfight which is a sold-out
affair. In fact, just about everything in the
way of a ticket or room is sold out since
thousands of tourists come each year to
watch proceedings.
sipping chilled wine.
Oh, yes ... they had toilets too.
But if you want to find mankind's first
sophisticated washroom facilities you have
to head for the Orkney Islands off the coast
of Scotland. There, archeologists have
unearthed latrine systems of plumbing
obviously designed to carry wastes away
from Orkney stone huts and into nearby
streams. Orkney Islanders were probably the
first humans to figure out how to relieve
themselves without having to go out in the
rain.
And they figured it out at least 10,000
years ago.
The world's first flush toilet? Probably the
one that catered to Royal Minoan 'bottoms at
a palace in Knossos, Crete, back about 2,000
B.C. Curiously, the flush toilet didn't catch
on. The concept disappeared for about 35
centuries, resurfacing in Elizabethan
England in the late 1700s.
Since then, mankind has seldom looked
back, as it were. But that doesn't mean we've
gotten terribly comfortable with the
necessary goings on that go in the necessary
house.
Why do we call it a restroom? Nobody
goes there to rest. Nor is "washing" our
prime goal — or "bathing" or "powdering our
noses".
Probably the all-time dopiest euphemism
is the one the British gave us: W.C.
It stands for "Water Closet" — as dumb a
name as I can imagine, and yet curiously
potent. You can ask a Spaniard to show you
to "El Doblay-Vay-Say" and he'll point you
toward the pissoir.
It's a term that can easily lead to grievous
The bulls are kept in pens until just before
midnight of the day previous to the running.
At that time they are run across the river
which flows through the city to a pen at the
bottom of Calle Santo Domingo, calle being
the Spanish word for street.
The next morning they are let loose to run
along this street and the authorities make
sure that all the side streets along the way
are barricaded so that no errant bull can
escape. The bulls run along the street until
they come to the end of it where they are run
into corrals at the Plaze (Square) de
Hemingway.
Needless to say there is a continual
celebration going on all night long. Nobody
gets much, if any, sleep. It is just as well that
the running starts at seven in the morning;
there might, otherwise, be too many tired
people around.
When the bulls start to run, a rocket is
fired so that everybody knows they are
coming.
One of the main things that people come
to see is the participation of young people
who run in front of the bulls trying to escape
their hoofs and horns. This is the
confrontation with death which seems to
fascinate the Spaniards; at any rate those
who are going to participate wear the red
scarf of San Fermin around their throat.
There are numerous cries of "Ole" as the
bulls rush along and, as some of the red
starved lose heart at the sight of a bull
approaching and dash for the nearest exit or
misunderstanding, however. I am reminded
of the story of the little old Englishwoman
looking for a room to rent for the summer in
a small village in Switzerland. She found
what she wanted, paid a deposit and returned
to England. But then she recalled that she
hadn't seen a "washroom", so she dashed off
a letter to her Swiss landlord asking ever so
politely about the location of the "W.C."
The Swiss landlord read the woman's letter
and scratched his head, "W.C.? Qu'est-ce
que c'est qu'un W.C."? In desperation, he
asked the parish priest for a translation. The
parish priest smiled indulgently. It must
stand for Wayside Chapel.
Which helps to explain the letter the
Englishwoman received from her Swiss
landlord a few days later.
Dear Madam:
The W.C. is located nine miles from the
house in the heart of a beautiful grove of
trees. It will seat 358 people at one time and
is open on Tuesday, Thursday and Sunday of
each week. Some visitors like to take their
lunch and make a day of it, especially on
Sunday when there is organ accompaniment.
The acoustics are very good, the slightest
music can be heard by everyone.
My wife is rather delicate, therefore has
not been able to attend regularly; it has been
six months since she last went. Naturally, it
pains her very much not being able to go
more often.
I will close now with the desire to
accommodate you in every way possible and
will be able to save you a seat whether down
in front or near the door, whichever you
prefer.
Yours sincerely, etc.
fire escape, there are also cries of
"Cobardon?" (coward).
Frankly I am amazed that not more people
get hurt but that may be due, as much as
anything, to a goodly number of cobardones
among the runners.
What happens to the bulls? Well, they are
used in the bullfights which take place
during the afternoon. In short, having had
their day in the streets and then in the
bullring, they are killed.
I know you are going to ask what
happened to me. Well, I have to tell you that
the story has something of an anticlimax.
Much as it would have been nice to prove
myself a man in the eyes of the thousands of
spectators, the old saying that discretion is
the better part of valour got the better of me
and I opted out. The fact that nothing
happened to my friends did not make me
wish that I had taken part. After all, less than
a year before I had had an extremely close
brush with death and I convinced myself that
once was enough. I did not want to tempt
fate too much.
Just to show you how rational we are,
once my studies in Spain were over I went
back to Switzerland and promptly climbed a
mountain which, in the eyes of my family,
was certainly tempting the same fate. When
I look at the mountain today, I tend to agree.
I often think back to the running of the
bulls. Man does some strange things for
excitement but this is surely one of the
strangest.
The
Short
of it
By Bonnie Gropp
It's in the heart
I guess you don't need to be an expert to
have an opinion. As a matter of fact you can
probably get away with knowing next to
nothing on a given subject and still have
something to say about it.
So it is with this slight arrogance that I
take on the topic for this week's column, The
idea came to me by way of my son who saw
it as the only obvious choice after 1_1-ad
asked my family Sunday evening what I
should fill this spot with this week.
"The Super Bowl, of course," my youngest
said with certainty.
Oh, the Super Bowl — an occasion when
two teams of large men, made larger by
layers of padding, literally go head to head
in a game of aggression and forceful contact.
An ocassion where a field of green surges
with testosterone. An occasion when people
have an excuse to make sitting in front of the
television a festive event.
Alright, I admit my understanding of the
game is limited, as is my enjoyment. When
it comes to football, I just don't get it.
It's not for lack of trying. Back in my days
at LDSS, much as it is now, students were
dismissed from classes to see our sports
teams' home games. While it often became
an excuse to play hooky, there always
seemed to be a huge turnout to root for the
local football squad. These I too, attended
faithfully, but feined enthusiasm and bluffed
my understanding.
This said, you might perhaps find it
interesting, that one of my favourite movies
is Rudy, the semi-biographical talc of a
young man who beats the odds to fulfill his
dream of not only attending the University
of Notre Dame, but playing for its lauded
Fighting Irish. Despite an early lacklustre
academic performance and being too slight
to be taken seriously as an athlete, Rudy's
determination and desire not only gets him
into his beloved halls of Notre Dame, but
wins over even the most skeptical
teammates.
Rudy may not have had brawn or brains,
he may not have been a great athlete, but he
had something that everyone close to him
recognized as infinitely more desireable —
Rudy had heart.
Admittedly, football is difficult for me to
grasp, no matter how many times it is
explained to me. Many good people have
tried, many have failed. But, while I may not
know football, I do know about heart. It
beats in that one special kid on the team,
who will never be as good as the rest, but
spends every chance he gets trying to be. It
beats in every girl whose been told she can't
do a man's job, so strives even harder to not
only show them she can, but will do it better.
That kind of heart beats in everyone who
has ever had to try a little harder. It beats in
those for whom desires aren't fulfilled easily,
who must stretch themselves a little further
than the rest just to be within reach of the
stars, then push even higher in the hopes of
shining with them.
Having heart is the difference between
having what you need and what you want.
It's the difference between being liked and
being admired. It's the difference between
succeeding and surpassing expectations.
When someone has it you can tell right
away, and even if you don't understand the
game they're playing you want to watch.
Arthur Black
International Scene