It’s been a long time since I’ve written about my local Laundromat and there’s a reason: I stopped going. I started using my little rinky dink washer in my house, which I hate because then I have to hang everything up to dry and it turns into cardboard. And it feels like cardboard. And it smells like cardboard.
Just to update those that have not tuned in previously to As the World Spins, the laundromat on my street is a portal to purgartory that seems to draw a mix of loosers, boozers, travelers, crazy ex-pats, artists, snotty women, and single men. Then there’s me, and I’m not quite sure which category I fit into (please, no need to comment).
But yesterday, out of sheer boredom I decided to hull my army duffle bag, filled to the max, down to hell’s gates to see if I could drum up any excitement. I’m sure just the sight of me carrying my massive duffle bag was entertaining enough. The French just never seem to have the quantity of laundry that we Americans do and I don’t know why. Perhaps they throw clothes away when they are dirty? I dunno. There’s still a few secrets to living la vie française that I haven’t figured out …
I entered the Laverie Automatique and was lucky enough to find it empty. I placed my clothes in the big washer and added my detergent. Next, I went to turn on the washing cycle at the change machine or should I say slot machine in disguise? It took my money without any problems (Hail Mary!). Sometimes I win at the slot machine and sometimes I loose, but for the moment we are even.
Then I picked up a French gossip mag with Sarkozy’s picture all over it and waited for the show to begin. Just as I was getting bored trying to read in French (it used to put me to sleep in high school and unfortunately it still has the same effect today) some bewildered Americans walked in. I always recognize Americans immediately because they enter the Laverie Automatique like they are trespassing on private property. I watched for a few minutes as they tried to decipher the heirglyphic instructions on the wall and then offered assistance.
But these Americans were able to adapt to their surroundings quickly and they figured out the whole system without any help. However, the one thing they did need was an internet cafe. No, not a cafe with wi-fi, but a cafe with computers. I know this sounds like an easy problem to solve. One would think that any international city would have an abundance of such places. Heck, even when I lived in a rural part of India without sewage or clean water we had at least one place to get online. (okay, so it took an hour, but whatevah) Mais non! The internet cafes in Paris are few and far between and not exactly welcoming.
So I did what any American would do, because contrary to popular belief Americans are nice and generous people, I offered up my apartment for their computing needs. At first they were surprised and I’m sure a little embarrassed. However in the end, I lured them out of purgatory with promises of fast internet connection. Hillary and Brice came over to chez moi, and were able to purchase their tickets for the Eurostar online. Without these tickets they would not have been able to catch their return flight back to the States. Good deed done for the day! I think that deserves one free pass out of hell.
I returned shortly after my new American friends to the laundromat to say goodbye and added more money to the slot machine to dry my clothes. So far so good: met nice Americans, no line for the dryers, no loss on the slot machine, no crying kids that smear dog poo all over the floor – oops that was last time.
But when things are too good to be true they are just that. I hadn’t really paid a lot of attention to this one guy sitting in the corner. I thought he was just doing his laundry until I took a closer look at the machines and realized that I was the only one with laundry in the whole place. He recognized my army duffle bag because my husband had dragged in a load the previous week. I guess not too many French people have gigantic green bags for their laundry. He started to talk to me in French with a thick unrecognizable foreign accent. He looked a little scary too, like one of the bad guys from Grease (the movie) with his hair slicked back wearing a white undershirt with sleeves rolled up to show off scars and burns.
I started folding my laundry while trying to dodge his personal questions. How old am I? Why don’t I have children yet? Why don’t I have sex with my husband every evening so we can have children? Where do I live? What floor is my apartment on? Is it a big apartment? What does my husband do for a living? And then right as he was about to ask me what I do for a living he caught a glimpse of one of my chef’s jackets that I was folding. “Tu es une cuisinier ?” (You are a cook?). “Oui.” I responded knowing full well that my jacket would now lead to a new clip of questions.
It did: How much do I make? Where do I work? How many hours do I work? What station do I work at? Luckily I shut down most of those questions quickly because my work permit is still inactive (thank you Sarkozy, I thought you were supposed to be an American supporter?). He then told me that he was also a cook and he showed me three business cards of different restaurants. I think he was trying to tell me that it was a chain Italian restaurant.
Our new found camaraderie was obviously cause to celebrate because he cracked open a 40 ouncer of beer (I thought we only had those in the U.S.?) and offered me the first sip. I was tempted, only because I was thirsty and it was hot, but instead of giving into temptation I finished folding my laundry quickly so I could get out of there. He kept shoving the beer can in my face like it was some sort of peace-pipe. I told him I was trying to loose weight, which is true, and gently pushed his hand away from my mouth. But then I felt a little bad, and when I said goodbye he came over to give me the traditional two kisses.
What could I do? It’s one of those French things that sometimes you just can’t get out of. So I kissed the devil twice on the cheek and he insisted that we kiss twice more. I grabbed my heavy body bag and scooted out of that place faster then a bat out of hell. That was enough excitement for one day I think. I’m still not exactly sure what he was doing in there. Hmmmm…any friend of the devil is a friend of mine?
To be continued…
Whoah!
What an encounter at the laundomat! cette histoire really made my day ! it made me so laugh! but you are absolument right about la bise: It’s one of those French things that sometimes you just can’t get out of!“ lol. lila. french expat, living in jamaica. cheers.
Thank you for turning what happened to you into a funny story 😉
This guy was just rude, and/or drunk.
François (Parisian looser having though its own machine)
In my experience, doing one’s laundry in any foreign country invites the weird into one’s life. You certainly handled it with grace and aplomb. One up for the Americans!
Just found your blog and am fascinated by your chef stories and great recipes.
Re the Americans, couldn’t they have bought their Eurostar tickets at the nearest RER station? Kind of you to ask them home. Glad they weren’t weirdos too.
all best, Susie Vereker
writer
“Pond Lane and Paris”
“An Old-fashioned Arrangement”
Susie – Thanks for your comments! You’re right about buying the ticket at the RER station however, if you buy them online via the American eurostar site you can save about half the amount. I don’t know why it’s cheaper but it is. (I’m glad they weren’t weird too!)
Christine – I was just contemplating the ritual of laundry again today, and it is indeed a cultural experience. In India I did all my clothes by hand with a scratchy blue bar of soap and then drapped meters of sari fabric to dry across my room. London, I had one of the washer/dryer in one machine that doesn’t do either very well! I guess I’m still stuck on Maytag.
François – I hope you don’t think I’m insinuating that French people are loosers!!! My laundromat is just a little special. Thank for your note 😉
Lila – So what’s laundry like in Jamaica? Okay, I’m going a little overboard, but I’m just curious. Kiss, kiss, Ms. Glaze
It’s funny, because everyone in America wants ‘European’ appliances…but how come the European washing machines in America only take about 40 mins versus the ones here, that take 2+ hours just for the wash part?
And get with the program, Ms. Glaze. (Sorry, but I don’t think that translates…): Wash your clothes at home, then take ’em to the laverie automatique to dry them.
Unless you’re looking to meet new people…
OMG David, that is too too funny! And you are so right about dragging over wet laundry. Read the previous 2 posts under Washing Machine Stories and you will understand my rage when it comes to people that circumvent the normal washing line. There have been too many times when I’ve been cut off at the dryers because people bring in their wet laundry. Many a Sunday has been ruined by these ‘cutters’!!! But, maybe you’re right, maybe I should get with the program….hmmm…..
Ms Glaze,
I am sorry, don’t misunderstand me, it was not a hint at all. I know you didn’t mean French are loosers of course.
I was just talking about myself: i am passing though life like a character in a Woody Allen movie..lol
But i have to let you now: i can smell my scrambled eggs are burning 😉
François
ms. glaze, in france, there is no such thing as a line. 😉 take the wet load there to dry.
and i am impressed by your hospitality with the other americans. i am the worst when it comes to talking to strangers. i hate doing it and will refuse to do it…
Oh Ms Glaze, that’s so creepy! Glad you could get the heck out of there.
Ms. Glaze,
You’re a riot and… You quote the Grateful Dead? I love it!
Hmmm… Let’s see, I would take creepy French laundry day over Siberian Soviet laundry day in the dead of winter, although I’ve done the Northern India beat the clothes over the rocks in the water laundry day too.
Could that be the making of a book avec photos? Cat
Cat – There was a time when knowing every Grateful Dead song by heart was VERY important to me. Even more important than studying my French in highschool!
“I set out running but I take my time, A friend of the devil is a friend of mine, If I get home before daylight, I just might get some sleep tonight ”
I’m up for a book on doing laundry around the world could be a bestseller!
na unt ? was passiert ???
Ha ha, sounds like a guy from the south of france. Like brazilians they don’t take a hint and seem to relish it when they finally piss you off and you tell them where to go.. no win situation..