Ms. Glaze's Pommes d'Amour

Laverie Automatique Part IV

Why do I have such bad laundry karma? Is there a God I can pray to that will take away my washing problems? Is it symbolic of my life? Is the world trying to tell me something?

If you have followed my laverie automatique stories from the past (aka: As The World Spins) you will remember that my experiences are often plagued with kids who smear dog doo around the floors, coin machines that eat twenty euro bills, French housewives who snap up all the dryers with their wet house-washed laundry, and random drunk cooks who hang out on their midday breaks.

But I moved from the bourgeois 17th arrondissement to the boisterous 5th arrondissement and I thought things would be different.

Things were different the first couple of times.

Okay, so I have to walk five blocks to my laundromat because the two in my hood are closed (Why? Wouldn't you think an area filled with tourists and Sorbonne students would warrant an array of places to wash clothes?) But still, my new laverie automatique is clean, has a plethora of dryers, and never eats my change.

Today the bubble burst. I took my laundry over to my sparkling clean laundromat, popped my clothes in, and left to do some shopping. When I came back one machine had finished and the other was overflowing with suds everywhere. My machine had turned into Mount Everest with a large white snow peak that bubbled up from the soap dispenser on the top.

Why me?

Both my machines were the same type and on the same cycle and they were started within seconds of each other. I asked a nice man (and the only other person in the place) what I could do, because the doors of the machines lock and you can't get your stuff out unless the caretaker comes to physically unlock them with a key. Furthermore you can't even stop the cycle. There's no emergency breaks.

He told me to switch the cycle button, which I did. Immediately all the suds and Mount Everst evacuated.

Much relief.

As my other load of laundry was drying I noticed that my wash machine was still stuck on one cycle. It was supposed to be a rinse cycle, but there was no water. So my chef's jackets were just flopping around endlessly from top to bottom, white arms waving around for rescue.

I asked the man again what I could do and if he could call the help number for me. But then he told me, the problem is that the water had been cut.

Why had I not noticed the men right outside working down in the manhole? He then pointed out to a paper on the door that said the water would be off until 6PM at night.

"But how long has your machine been running?"

"Une heure. Mais je pense que elle travaille bien. Elle est presque finie" (One hour, But I think she works well, she's almost finished)

"Normalement le cycle prend 45 minutes." (But normally the cycle is 45 minutes.)

He looked to his watch and then back at his machine.

I asked him when the paper on the door had gone up and he replied that they had posted it twenty minutes ago. Great, so while I was out enjoying my ONLY day off this week, the Parisian water department snuck in and posted their little incognito sign and dropped into the bowels of France to check out the drainage problems.

I only hoped that l'eau de toliette had not been washing my clothes all day.

We called the help number on the wall and they informed us that they had no workers available to help today. So then my new friend came up with an ingenious plan. He told me that maybe if I went outside and smiled and talked with the head water dude, that they might have our water back on.

"Plaisantez-vous?" (you joke?) I asked.

"Non." He replied and gave a helpless shrug.

So I did, I went outside and smiled and apologized for my bad French and asked what the situation was with our water. The head water dude told me that they were working on it. And, indeed they were. I peered down to see three men suspended with ropes and little headlights attached to their hard helmets.

I then lied and told him (in French):

"I have a problem, I'm a cook, and I have all my jackets in the washing machine and it won't stop and I can't unlock the door. I think without the water the cycle won't stop and I cook in two hours and I have nothing to wear."

He came in to the laverie automatique to examine the situation and look at my sad jackets waving endlessly for mercy. My new friend and the water boss had a quiet serious man conversation for five minutes and then the boss left to shout down into the manhole.

Twenty minutes later our water was back on and all the guys in the manhole came up to say "bonjour". We graciously thanked them over and over again. They packed up and moved on to the next water problem.

So all that's wrong is right again. And before you go thinking that I'm terrible for using female persausion in such a contrived way, think about working for 12-14 hours a day, six days a week, and then having to spend six hours at the laundromat on your one day off.

Not only that, but all the bistros and cafe's on the street could re-open with water, so really I was helping out the whole area. (My halo and wings are glowing can you tell?)

In fact, aside from being perturbed about my laundry taking three hours, the chivalry of the French water department truly made my day. They were so sweet and helpful and I will always have a special place in my heart for the water depatment of Paris.

Oh, and just as my second load of laundry was finished drying and my new friend's laundry too, the caretaker called back to say they would send some one over to stop the washing machines.

Too late, but at least they made the effort.

Laverie Automatique III

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...

Laverie Automatique Part II

Back from A weekend in Basque Country, the laundromat saga continues...

My husband and I did something really really naughty tonight. We brought in three huge loads of laundry five minutes after 9PM into our infamous laundromat. Fully aware of the cut off time, we ran with a huge army duffle bag balanced between us from our apartment – determined to get our wash done.

Just as we arrived and started stuffing washing machines, a teenager pointed to the sign on the door that read the "Dernier lavage a 9 PM" (last load at 9) and then she told us that the coin machine (yes, the infamous coin machine) would cut off and we'd be stuck. She insisted that we couldn't do our laundry anymore.

I responded that she was wrong: "Le Laverie ferme a dix heure!" and my husband started plugging coins into the machine which was still working. Out of nowhere he began to sing, "Il ma-arche, il ma-arche, il marche!" (it wo-orks, it wo-orks, it works!). Our brooding teen was not very happy with this. But let's face it, the French are sticklers for process –any one who's been through the Carte de Sejour process will agree.

The owner of the shop walked in and looked at all three of our loads carefully. He wished us all a good evening and walked out. Not a word about the time. No question about if we needed to use the dryers. Everything was hush, just the sound of clothes going around and around.

As soon as our disgruntled teenager's clothes dried, she balled them up and marched out. But, not before she wished us a "bon soireé" – another french formality that you must do no matter what the situation is. Oh, I felt pain for her. There's nothing worse than insisting that your right, not being right, having some one rub it in your face with a victory song, having to wait in silence for your laundry to finish, and then having to wish those awful Americans a good night anyway!

The owner let us dry our laundry and killed the machines at 11 P.M. Plenty of time to finish. We told him we had just got back from vacation and that we were sorry. He responded, "C'est normal, c'est normal"

Didn't loose or make any money tonight at the laundromat, so I guess we're still a few coins ahead.

Tune in next time for "As Our Clothes Turn" ...

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Laverie Automatique

I have come to the conclusion that my Parisian neighborhood laundromat is really a portal for Purgatory and only bizarre demonic people or angelic misunderstood artists come to wash their filthy clothes, much less their lives. I must fit in somewhere between those two categories.

There are two things in Paris that hold a lot of anxiety for me. The first is french taxi drivers and the second is my neighborhood laundromat. In fact the only time I have had a positive experience was when I met the American jazz pianist Joel Forrester, but that too was after the money machine ate my 20 euros.

The laundromat likes to gamble – a sure sign of the devil. My husband and I have begun a running total on what we loose and what we get back. This is no joke. I spent 12 euros on the wash today and the bill slot was broken so I had to go get change, which meant I had to buy something from the Tabac to get the change. So I broke a 20, bought some gum, and came back with 18. I put 12 in for the wash and saved 6 for the dryer.

After finishing my wash and loading up 2 dryers, the owner of the joint came in and asked me if everything was working. I said, "Non, il ne marche pas" and pointed at the bill slot on the money machine. The money machine controls all the dryers and washers so there's no getting around it.

He opened the machine, fixed it, and then took my 3 euros to test it. Happy with himself he locked it up and began to leave. I stopped him because he had only entered 1 euro's worth of time. "Monsieur, tu mis un euro, pas trois euros". Embarrassed he responded: "Désolé, désolé, pardon madam..." He unlocked the machine again and fed what I thought was a 2 euro coin into the machine and left.

Never trust a Frenchman! (that was told to me by a French man) I went to the machine to check the time remaining on my dryer and there was 20 minutes instead of 30. He jipped me for a euro. But the money machine gave me an extra euro earlier for one of my wash loads so we're even today.

Two months ago the machine ate my 20 euros. Some woman thought I was trying to start my wash machine and kept insisting that I push one of the buttons. I finally turned to her and said, "Look, I use these machines all the time. I'm not trying to start the machine, I'm trying to get my money back because it just ate my 20 euros". She gave me that blank look that many French people do when I start speaking French.

This didn't help my temper and I started babbling a furious litany on why Paris is backwards and how I wish I was back home in front of my newly purchased maytag washer and dryer. Joel Forrester introduced himself after my little temper tantrum and we became friends. Nice to know that you can start a friendship at your worst moments and still be liked.

Three weeks ago I dragged two huge duffle bags down to the laundromat and filled all of the washing machines in the place. This made me happy because I knew that I would at least get to the dryers before anyone else. Just as my laundry was finishing some woman came out of nowhere with heaps of wet laundry from her house and filled up all the dryers. I didn't know whether to deck her or cry. To make matters worse, she barely filled all four industrial sized dryers when she could have easily taken one.

I piled my heaps of wet laundry in a basket and pushed it towards the dryers and stared at her until she put down her stupid magazine. She finally glanced up at me with that a "who me? Did I do something wrong?" expression. You know – that same expression when you get bumped hard in the street and then get the customary "pardon" response. I gestured towards the four dryers and then to my wet laundry, my cheeks burning in rage clearly giving away any pretense of civility.

She shrugged. Yup, she shrugged and continued with her laundry and her lame magazine. I glowered at her from across the laundromat planning her death. Better yet, wondering if maybe I could stuff her toothpick figure into one of the industrial dryers without anybody noticing. I hate cutters and she clearly cut in front of me. People who sit in the laundromat doing their wash should have dibs over the dryers. Finally one of her dryers stopped and she took out her laundry piece by piece, folding each one before returning to grab another. I decided to help her and picked up all her laundry and dumped it next to her and gave her my best courtesy smile.

But every rain cloud has a silver lining and as I was trying to stuff my 10 euro bill into the money slot unsuccessfully it all of a sudden spit back 30 euros at me. Some one must have crammed a bunch of bills in there. I took the money and pocketed it, she looked over and I gave her the same shrug she gave me, sat down, and picked up my stupid magazine. Nice to know that I just got back all her money.

Then there was the time my husband and I did laundry together hung over from a few too many bottles of red wine the night before. Some kid, in need of a lot of attention, entered with his single father who clearly was more interested in his telephone conversation with his new girlfriend than entertaining his child.

The kid had two of those new Mc Donald's beat box toys played and them simultaneously for at least a half hour until his Dad whacked him really hard. Then he started crying and hitting all the washing machines with his toys over and over and over. We felt sorry for the little kid, but secretly pondered what sin we had committed to be forced to endure such a cacophony.

Finally the Dad brought him outside to calm him down after he noticed how shocked and irritated we were. But the kid had somehow managed to step in dog shit right outside the door and when he came back in he dragged it around the small laundromat. Nothing like the smell of fresh laundry and merde to cure a hangover.

So as we speak, we're up 10 euros in Purgatory. I'm hoping that if we reach 100 we can just buy our way out.

Et Voila!

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