adventures in laundry
During the initial walk-through of my new living quarters, my landlady/local mom pointed out a washing machine on my patio. I glanced at it quickly, thought, great, that's one more thing taken care of. I should have known better. NOTHING is that simple in Damascus, even laundry. Here is the illustrated tale of my laundry afternoon.
First, I approach The Beast. I role it out of it's corner, plug it in, and remove the lid. Next, I grab a length of hose from another corner of the patio. I attach one end to the kitchen sink and drop the other into the basin of the machine (the belly of the Beast?) Slowly, the basin fills with water. I add clothes and detergent and spin the dial to get the thing started.
The clothes begin languid perambulations around the basin. Soon, however, they have started to twist, wrapping themselves around each other. I am perturbed. Is this SUPPOSED to happen? The clothes are rapidly forming an ever-denser mass, and I decide to act. I reach into the basin and start trying to separate the clothes, hoping that I won't inadvertently sever a sleeve or two in the process.
Suddenly, the spinning stops. Except for the continuing tick of the timer, everything is silent. Have I killed the machine?? Nervously, I descend the stairs to apologize to host mom for this new display of personal ineptitude.
Host mom points at the lights and unusually silent television and I realize we're having a brownout. Not my fault. OK. I return to the patio and decide the clothes could use more soaking anyway. I go to my room, intending to do more homework to pass the time. However, the brownout has also eliminated my fan. I sweat. Time passes.
The power returns. I restart the machine and continue untangling for the 10 minute wash cycle. The amount of dirt that has emerged from my clothes is shocking. I clean the machine and move on to step 2: repeated rinsings (by hand) in plastic tubs.
Dunk, slosh, soak, repeat. I decide I can live with some soap in my clothes. I turn back to machine and have a 19th century moment as I begin feeding the rinsed clothes through the roller. While ringing out a shirt, I notice that the machine has removed most of its decorative sequins. I applaud the machine for its good taste.
Having hung the clothes to dry, I proceed to the final step of the laundry process: cavalierly tossing the rinse water across the entire patio. Having liberally doused the floor and most of myself, I squee-gee the water into a central drain. I have now cleaned the patio as well as my clothes! Once again, I pause to admire Roman architectural principles.
As a final note, the thought may have passed through some readers' heads that this whole process could be described as a Giant Pain In The Ass. Which is not entirely untrue. However, in a city where water is extremely scarce, any chance to throw it around with reckless abandon is pretty enjoyable. And, hey, it's only for 9 weeks.
First, I approach The Beast. I role it out of it's corner, plug it in, and remove the lid. Next, I grab a length of hose from another corner of the patio. I attach one end to the kitchen sink and drop the other into the basin of the machine (the belly of the Beast?) Slowly, the basin fills with water. I add clothes and detergent and spin the dial to get the thing started.
The clothes begin languid perambulations around the basin. Soon, however, they have started to twist, wrapping themselves around each other. I am perturbed. Is this SUPPOSED to happen? The clothes are rapidly forming an ever-denser mass, and I decide to act. I reach into the basin and start trying to separate the clothes, hoping that I won't inadvertently sever a sleeve or two in the process.
Suddenly, the spinning stops. Except for the continuing tick of the timer, everything is silent. Have I killed the machine?? Nervously, I descend the stairs to apologize to host mom for this new display of personal ineptitude.
Host mom points at the lights and unusually silent television and I realize we're having a brownout. Not my fault. OK. I return to the patio and decide the clothes could use more soaking anyway. I go to my room, intending to do more homework to pass the time. However, the brownout has also eliminated my fan. I sweat. Time passes.
The power returns. I restart the machine and continue untangling for the 10 minute wash cycle. The amount of dirt that has emerged from my clothes is shocking. I clean the machine and move on to step 2: repeated rinsings (by hand) in plastic tubs.
Dunk, slosh, soak, repeat. I decide I can live with some soap in my clothes. I turn back to machine and have a 19th century moment as I begin feeding the rinsed clothes through the roller. While ringing out a shirt, I notice that the machine has removed most of its decorative sequins. I applaud the machine for its good taste.
Having hung the clothes to dry, I proceed to the final step of the laundry process: cavalierly tossing the rinse water across the entire patio. Having liberally doused the floor and most of myself, I squee-gee the water into a central drain. I have now cleaned the patio as well as my clothes! Once again, I pause to admire Roman architectural principles.
As a final note, the thought may have passed through some readers' heads that this whole process could be described as a Giant Pain In The Ass. Which is not entirely untrue. However, in a city where water is extremely scarce, any chance to throw it around with reckless abandon is pretty enjoyable. And, hey, it's only for 9 weeks.
posted by Emily at 5:23 PM
3 Comments:
9 weeks....well, I'm sure you and the beast will become best of friends. Just make sure to feed him regularly :)
It might be time to look into how much it costs to have someone else do your laundry...
maybe you should just wear your clothes when you swim and call it good.
or call it multi-tasking.
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