Washboard Boogie

Our apartment is short a washing machine, and the French-Mexican landlord did some investigating for us to find a Laundromat nearby. She gave me the keys to the sink up on the roof and the cage for drying clothes, but made it clear that that was for washing shoes and things like that. So I hauled my sheets and towels and almost my entire wardrobe (I’m here with one suitcase’s worth of clothes, all of which had seen better days before being submitted to Moroccon sun and sand and Portuguese medieval and fascist staircases) a few blocks to the laundry, where I was charged $15 for about one and a half loads. I know this doesn’t seem like much money for someone to wash, dry and fold clothes, especially fitted sheets, but I’ve been to the emergency room in Mexico for less than $15, and didn’t even have to wait to see the doctor. So it’s expensive.

I ask everyone I meet if they know where I can wash my clothes—the downstairs neighbors, the lady peddling mole in the market, the lady-peddling-mole’s son-in-law. No one seemed know concretely of any laundry services, but everyone gestured in the same general direction, so one day Coyote and I, after taking a wrong turn, decided to take advantage of it and find the Laundromat. Eureka: A 6’x9’ room lined with small washing machines and mountains of dirty clothes brushing the bottoms of the hanging clean clothes, and a plump lady frantically folding underwear while watching her novela. She told us they’re backed up, that the boss needs to buy more washers, that it takes two or three days to do a load. Then she brushed away a tear as the sounds of a soap opera funeral filled the storefront. We decided that this was a good option, but I never had enough clean clothes built up (I only have one suitcase!) to part with my wardrobe for two or three days. Oh, and I’m also not silly enough to think two or three days are 48-60 hours. This week we’re having a five-day-weekend for the bicentennial celebration—I wasn’t going to be wearing clean clothing any time soon.

So I have bitten the bullet and channeled my pioneer ancestors and made the trip up to the roof every day with a bag full of dirty clothes. For the first two weeks I had the magical power of making thunder and pounding rain pour out of a clear sky, merely by hanging wet clothes on the line to dry in the sun. But after consulting with the lady who sells mole and making the proper sacrifices, the weather and I have come to some sort of understanding. Now the only thing between me and my laundry is the spectacle that a gringa washing her own clothes seems to be for my neighbors and their housekeepers.

Al, my neighbor across the hall, who’s from Argentina but has been a US citizen for years, loves to practice his English on me when he catches me on the roof. He comes out of his tool shed and says things like, “Laundry day again?” “Scrub-a-dub-dub!” and I assure that his English is perfect while trying to hide my skivvies in the suds. My landlord is scandalized, and even knocked on the door to ask me face to face whether I was really doing my laundry on the roof. Apparently her maid had ratted me out, and Francoise had to see it for herself to believe it. I confirmed the troubling news but even that wasn’t enough. After going back to her apartment she climbed the three flights of stairs just to see it with her own eyes. I have finally gotten a system down for getting all the soap out and scrubbing on the cement washboard without ripping off my fingertips, so at least she saw me at my best.

Maybe someone will be so scandalized that they’ll offer me access to their washing machine. Until then, I’ll just think about Laura Ingalls Wilder and dream of joining a bluegrass band.