Coffee Shop, Restroom (Viva LVMH)

In San Francisco near Union Square, I find myself sat in a coffee shop attached to a luxury consignment store. Before I leave, I go into the restroom.

The room is painted a deep forest green, with checkered tile floors and a black toilet bowl. The air is quiet, except for a low female voice from the overhead speaker speaking French.

I listen closely:

“luh-WHEE VUI-tahn. luh-WHEE VUI-tahn.”

“ehr-MEZZ. ehr-MEZZ.”

“buh-LEHN-see-ah-gah. buh-LEHN-see-ah-gah.”

For a brief moment, I feel as though I have been transported to Mugatu’s lair. As though at any moment I will be overwhelmed, forced against my will to kill the Prime Minister of Malaysia. For all I’ve heard about the Bay and its “move fast and break things” attitude, I never considered that one day, I would myself be broken.

Confused and dizzy, I accept my fate as global fashion’s newest sleeper agent. Viva LVMH, long may she slay.

The voice continues.

“EVES saehn-leur-ahn. EVES saehn-leur-ahn.”

“bow-TAY-gah VEN-ah-tah. bow-TAY-gah VEN-ah-tah.”

I come to while gazing into the black basin of the toilet bowl, as a wave of belly laughter erupts from my chest and crashes over the room.

Warhol at his most addled and intoxicated couldn’t have dreamt of this. Oh Duchamp, if you could see me now. In this bathroom, within a coffee shop, within a luxury consignment store, sits the greatest piece of accidental performance art I have ever witnessed.

I flush.

“ZHAN pohl gau-tieh. ZHAN pohl gau-tieh.”

“MAY-sohn mar-GYEH-lah. MAY-sohn mar-GYEH-lah.”

As I wash my hands and prepare to leave, I hear the speaker say:

“This concludes today’s French lesson. Thank you for listening.”

I exit the bathroom and then the shop, back onto the streets of San Francisco. I smell nothing in the air except for cigarette smoke and piss. Eau de urine, perhaps.