French laundry

I’m doing laundry on holiday in Paris

First of all people are smoking, Which I mean, I smoke, who cares.

But something about doing it around the cleaning of clothes feels disrespectful,

but I can’t attribute to whom.

There is an Australian couple from Queensland fussing with one of the machines.

“lessive poudre lavage… Miles, you think that’s where you put the powder?”

You can imagine how this sound in their particular accent. An accent I have come to enjoy having spent some time in the antipodes, but one that admittedly can be grating if you aren’t charmed by it.

All this to say I am no better adjusted to the situation then them.

In fact an American, who I later find out is a historian of French Louisiana has to help me get the dryer going.

“I read French all the time for my research” he later tells me after several moments of silence between us and the tumbling of clothes. “Can’t speak very well though, also the french back then wasn’t nearly as flowery as it is now, in my world it’s mostly names, dates and locations.”

There is a Chinese man pacing around smoking and folding his laundry very fast.

He is on the phone speaking at times in both Mandarin and French. He seems irritated that it’s so busy so he must come here often.

Personally I used to hate laundry until I started coming to laundromats. I enjoy the gathering of people all for the mundane common goal of washing their clothes. To watch and be watched by the village, tickles a lost part of my social psyche. All of us washing our clothes together in the river. The task making us closer.

The couple from Queensland have finished up their laundry, they have a German daughter in law and are taking the Eurostar to Düsseldorf to see their grandkids tomorrow.

“Hey well have a fine time in Paris, hell of a place, gotta get out to the musee de versaille if you can.”

He pronounces it “Ver-sails” and I thank him for the euro he lent me for detergent.