Laundromat

No matter the country, laundromats are all pretty much the same. They were all built in the 50’s and are still using their original industrial washers and dryers. The lighting is dim, the floors are grubby, and metal chairs are randomly scattered along the walls. A heavily pregnant woman is always folding clothes there. Laundromats are leftovers from a poorer and seedier past. A past with dimestore novels, ladies’ girdles, and lots of cigarettes. The audio from this past would include the sound of men muttering in dole queues and a domestic argument escaping through an open window…on a sultry evening. I’ve always loved going to the laundromat and today was no different. They make me remember a past I never actually had. I want to speak out of the corner of my mouth, wrap my hair in a snood and smack my chewing gum. Change my name to Stella.

We had to wash all the sopping towels and rags from “the incident of the leaking roof in the night”. Tourist information directed us to a lavomatique in Chaumont and after two tries, we found it down a side street. Like all laundromats, the walls were papered with “instructions from the management.” The world would be such a clean and orderly place if people would only follow directions! Posters on the walls and handwritten scraps of paper taped to the machines give full explanations. Weigh all clothing before filling machine. Do not rinse diapers in this sink. The management are not responsible for lost articles. Use the correct water temperature for your item of clothing. The posters are curling and faded with age and the cellotape is crusty and yellow but the earnest desire for people to just follow directions remained. I don’t know if anybody ever reads them.

The signs in this French laundry had an odd graphic quality. Certain phrases were enunciated with layout and lettertypes- small, big, weird italic, bold, narrow, wide, indented, centered – and then arrows direct us down the page to what seems to be the conclusion. IF we would do this, (arrow) the following good result would happen. The owner was trying to make it as simple as possible to be clean, hygienic, well-pressed and better-groomed. Unfortunately, Claire and I couldn’t understand a word.

I pulled our clothes out of the tumble drier, noticed something stuck to the drum and peeled it off. A piece of fabric had fused to resemble those candied sugar waffles you sometimes get with ice cream…except this had a pink ribbon. Claire saw what I was holding and squealed, “my knickers!” and sank down in the chair, “those were Italian.”

I suspect melting knickers had been addressed in the instructions on the wall. Once again, they’d been disregarded with unfortunate results. Over in the corner, the ghost of the laundromat slumped against the mangle, pulled on her cigarette and began to weep.