Tuesday, 25 May 2010

French Laundry

No, not the restaurant.   Actual french laundry.  

I was thrilled this morning.  Woke up at the crack of dawn, caffeinated myself with some tea, mapped out by delicious itinerary for the day including a hunt for fabulous macaroons, a stop at a famous bookstore and ample time sitting around at a café down the street.   

My bright eyed self decided that since it was so early, I could squeeze in a quick laundry cycle first.     This weekend, I considered seeing if I could make it without doing laundry until I head home.  Although I loved doing laundry in Rome, the air drying process turned all of my clothes into stiff cardboard facades.   It has taken a week or so, but my various pairs of jeans are now all in the perfect state of softness and comfort.    Then, the past two days happened and everything sort of degenerated into comfort coated in dirt.   Not good.   So… laundry time it is.

I have no idea how to work the machine here.   It apparently washes AND dries.  Intriguing.  I play around with the buttons for awhile, crumple up some soap tablets in one of the three open slots and wait for something to happen.   Nothing happens.

I am not backing down.  I had already sorted my clothes and they are in the machine to stay until they come out smelling fresh and clean.    I search around the apartment for instructions.   There must be instructions somewhere.

The apartment guide has a huge caution written in several places.   Warning:   Do not use appliances until you have carefully read the instructions.   Right.  Thanks.

Consider checking the comments book from prior guests.   Sometimes these have useful tidbits.    Lo and behold, an entry dated back to sometime in 2008 giving precise instructions on how to use the machine.    Each button has a clear instruction.   Fabulous.  I give it a whirl.


The whirl started around 7 this morning.  I am sure my neighbors were thrilled when the machine kicked into high gear.    The thing is, it is now 11:15 and it is still going.   FOUR HOURS later.   Four hours.    There are a bunch of buttons still lit up and I see my clothes spinning around inside calling for me to rescue them.   I am tempted to disrupt the cycle but fear causing permanent damage.   Do not exactly have anything set aside in budget to cover this expense.  

Sigh.   My perfectly planned day is going down the tubes.    Oh, and did I mention that one of the lit up lights on the machine has 9h written next to it.    Please, please don’t tell me this means 9 HOURS.    


I miss my Rome laundry.   Even if it meant waiting 48 hours for my jeans to dry and having to break in crunchy undergarments.

Please note:   this post precedes a previously planned update on my visit to Montmarte this weekend simply because I am desperate.     

If there is someone out there reading this that has a clue as to what I’ve done wrong, please share.   It appears I’ll be here for some time… 

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French Laundry
4/ 5
Oleh

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