#78: Bidet Aweigh!
Toto, We're Not In Kansas Anymore
As the trio of plumbers snapped on their foot coverings and turned to head toward our primary bathroom, the burliest member of the team, bearded and straightfaced, asked me to confirm the team’s to-do list.
I had dreaded this moment. Because amongst the usual pipes and drains and new sink faucets was a bathroom fixture my wife had purchased that I really didn’t want to discuss with anyone – including a plumber.
But that’s why the man was here, so I steeled myself and after running through the updates I arrived at the item in question.
“And…, “I said sheepishly, “… we have a bidet to install.”
The plumber’s face lit up with a wide grin. I prepared to be mocked.
“A bidet?” he said. “We got a bidet a few years ago. Let me tell you – it will change your life.”
The modern bidet has been around since the early 1700s. Originating in France, those porcelain bowls featuring a spray of cleansing water were a symbol of wealth and, often, aristocracy.
Today bidets are near universal in Europe, and are common in parts of the Middle East, South America and elsewhere. Bidet adoption is as high as 80% in countries such as Italy. Europeans teach bidet use to their children, much as they teach the importance and proper technique for brushing their teeth.
In stark contrast, bidets are rare in the U.S. – less than 1% of bathrooms here have them. They are often stigmatized and made fun of for reasons I don’t completely understand … something to do with American uneasiness of water near our genital areas and misconceptions about a bidet’s cleanliness.
The first time I saw a bidet in person I was 27, in France, backpacking through Europe with friends. The three of us noted it in our hotel room and stared, then pulled a nearby lever to send water into the air. We burst out laughing. One of us later used it to brush his teeth.
That was also my last interaction with a bidet.
Then in January, a rare Georgia ice storm and ensuing heavy rain caused water to enter our home through the roof. The water cascaded down, along inside walls and then across subfloors under tile and wood flooring.
The water incursion damaged multiple rooms in our house, from the primary bathroom to a finished basement bedroom. The fix required the removal of most of the tile in our bathroom – floor, shower walls and around the builder-grade jetted tub we never used.
That, of course, led to a domino-like effect of multiple repairs and then improvements.
And that’s when I learned about Toto bidets – and, eventually, that my plumber had one.
Our Toto bidet arrived in multiple boxes, one of them fairly heavy. It didn’t come with a training guide. It did, however, provide its own remote control.
About the size of a 90s television remote, the bidet control center features multiple simple illustrations of what appears to be water shooting into butts.
How much water, and at what speeds, was a mystery.
I ignored the now-installed bidet for a couple of weeks, finding reasons to use other, standard, toilets in our house. It helped that the bidet leaked a bit, and it took time – and two more plumber visits as well as an online emergency review by Toto techs – to determine the cause of the leak.
I would walk by the bidet, noting its green and blue indicator lights. Occasionally it would make noises, sometimes like water gurgling, other times an undefinable humming.
I didn’t investigate further.
As the days passed, my wife kept asking me if I had tried the bidet, yet. At first her tone was pleasant. Then it progressed to curious, and finally, to irritation. She had wanted the bidet. I was not following her plan.
Eventually, though, just like back in middle school when I knew a dreaded math test was coming in Mrs. Litwin’s third period class and that facing it was inevitable, I accepted that my time on the bidet was near.
And like Chuck Yeager, I had to strap in, grab the controls and ride the wild wind.
Soon after that, I found myself standing next to the bidet after brushing my teeth (in the sink, FYI), time on my hands.
I decided now was the moment, and assumed the position.
The first thing I noticed was that the seat was warm. Too warm for me, really. But that was par for course. When I sometimes accompanied my wife to get a pedicure, I always found the “foot water” too hot, much to the disdain of the pedicurist.
But I kept going. Beneath me, the bidet hummed and made odd little noises. I hunkered down, eyes narrowed, waiting for impact.
Nothing happened. Hmmmm.
Still sitting, I lifted the remote off its holder and studied the drawings.
Guessing I should start from the left, I pushed the first button – what looked like a toilet paper holder with a black bar around its middle.
The lights on the remote turned on, glowing green. We were in business.
Time for the next button in the sequence, depicting what I can only describe as a line drawing of a stylized human bottom, being blasted from below as if a whale spout was shooting water into the air.
I pressed it.
Why hello, Toto.
I’m not sure I have ever felt water hit me from that angle. It wasn’t a surprise, really. It was more an initial sense of unease, quickly replaced by curiosity and then … understanding.
Because this button and the next two buttons all seemed to do the same thing – shoot water at my bum, but in slightly different locations and at slightly different water pressures.
Also, I’m pretty sure at least some of that water was warm.
As I sat, my exposed behind being blasted by water at different angles and speeds, I pondered what was happening. If the goal was to clean different positions of the canvas, fine, but couldn’t that also be achieved by me shifting slightly?
Perhaps it was meant to clean men and women differently, and I was getting the full treatment?
I wasn’t sure. But as I wondered, I soon became aware of something else: The water was not stopping.
I had assumed a preset time limit. There was none. Instead, the water kept coming, until it dawned on me that I might need to press each button a second time to stop its cycle.
Yep, that worked.
Finally, various water cycles complete, the Toto and I moved onward – to the Final Boss, a last button featuring a group of three, horizontal lines.
I guessed fan, and I was right. The gently blowing warm air dried my posterior. When I pressed it again, I realized the ride was over.
I had completed by first bidet adventure.
As a test, I tore a strip of toilet paper off the nearby roll and patted, then - holding my breath - brought it to eye level for a look (I spare no effort for my substack readers).
Nothing. The TP was as dry and clean as the day it rolled off the assembly line.
I thought back to moments over the years when I had stumbled across online debates about the merits of bidets vs. the “American” tradition of wiping with toilet paper. People on both sides viewed the opposite method as anything from uncouth to barbaric.
“Who puts THEIR HAND up there with a thin sheet of tissue paper?” I remember one poser commenting in horror about the American practice.
I never posted, because I knew nothing about bidets.
Well, I can finally report that I get it. I now understand why so much of the world chooses bidets, and the benefits of a touchless, if somewhat complex and lengthier, toilet visit.
Mostly, I now understand my plumber. A bidet does, in fact, change your life.