What does my dream mean? No wait, don’t answer that.
I am standing in line for a public restroom. In France. The room is cavernous, the tall walls made of red rock with decorative wavy strips of copper running from floor to ceiling. There are a few Americans in line ahead of me, all older with gray hair. One at a time they walk up an elevated path which curves around the rock wall. They reappear on an upper level where there are two stall doors and a stone trough, presumably for quick urination although everyone chooses the stalls.
When it is my turn I head up the path, but when I turn the corner it ends and I can’t see a way to the bathrooms. I have to hoist myself up a series of waist-high rock shelves. At the top there is a chain spanning the steep drop. I swing hand over hand, thinking there is no way all the other people did this. Once safely across I see the path again which curves around revealing the row of restrooms.
There seems to be no one else left in the large room. I go into one of the stalls, which is quite clean except the toilet hasn’t been flushed and the water is murky brown in the bottom of the bowl. I sit down to pee. After a moment I hear noises and shouts of men speaking French. They are very upset. The door opens. The oh-so-very-French man standing there has short brown hair and a little mustache like the inspector in the old Pink Panther movies. I gather that he and his men are from security and are swarming the bathroom because they saw me on video climbing around on the structures.
Clouseau says that there is no pooping in the bathrooms and that if I am pooping there is a five Euro fine. I assure him that I have only pissed, but he insists on checking the toilet. I protest that the mess was already there. He says, “Perhaps that is true,” and charges five Euro anyway.