Laundry
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I knew I’d failed to get the washing machine working when water started squirting out, breaking the seal around the front door. The washer had just kept filling with water until the pressure was so intense that the water had to blow out somewhere. I’d been suspicious of problems from the start, when the on/off light failed to go on. So I was sitting in front of the machine, reading Bruce Chatwin’s In Patagonia, and waiting to see what would happen. I was perfectly positioned to catch the explosion of water in my lap.
I’d begun the morning exploring David’s neighborhood for a laundromat, scouring Belgrano’s streets full of cafés and fancy-pants stores without luck. I was about to give up when I finally found a small one, a substantial walk from the house. Do people in this neighborhood have maids do their washing? Then, immediately upon finding the laundromat, I remembered that David had a washer in his house, so my research expedition had been pointless.
Now my clothes were stuck inside a washing machine which was full of water and wouldn’t let me open the door. Perplexed, I decided to turn the water off, read some more Chatwin, and wait.
Actually, this was my second encounter with the washing machine. The previous day, I’d filled it with clothes, put the soap in, translated the various settings, and tried to start it before realizing that the washer was not plugged in, was not hooked up to the water, and was disconnected from the drain. Convinced this meant that the machine didn’t work, I removed my clothes and was about to give up. But later an Argentine friend came by and seemed to think it was normal to unhook the washer after each use. In a few seconds she hooked it up and said we were ready to go.
Unfortunately, it was starting to look like the machine was really broken. I was patiently waiting for something to happen, but nothing was doing. I tried turning the dial to various settings, switched the power on and off, opened and closed the water spigot, tried to shake the machine (too heavy), but it remained unresponsive. I read another short chapter of my book.
Then I tried the door again and, magically, it opened, dumping the chamber-full of water on my feet. Still, this was progress. At least I had my clothes. They were sopping wet, so I couldn’t take them to the laundromat, but I could wash them myself in the tub.
Four hours of work, and my first load of Argentine laundry was done.
antes era quick notes on week 2
despues tenés apartment J
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david
Next day: Success. David does a load of laundry with seemingly no problems. The sight of David and Jeremy hunched over in front of the washing machine, pointing and gesturing and conjecturing about the various settings, must have been hilarious to our neighbors across the courtyard. I should explain that both of us are quite well trained to use laundry machines in our own country.
[enviado el 28 Oct 02]