THE FLORENCE LAUNDROMAT
We had to do our laundry. It was a must. Hot days of trekking all over Florence and minimalist packing had left our clothing unwearable and no amount of washing the delicates in the inn’s sink would lessen the odiferous contents of our laundry bag. Scouting out the nearest laundromat, we slung our sweaty, salty, earthy smelling clothes over our shoulders and headed out for an afternoon of watching our togs spin around in machines.
The backstreets of residential Florence looked much the same as any other European city. Little trattorias and bodegas tucked away on small streets. Black bricks burning hot in the afternoon sun. Bright flowers hanging from baskets over the edges of apartments and homes. We found the laundromat, with its bright red signage above the door, empty upon our arrival. The requisite plastic chairs all attached together in a row and the smell of industrial soap made it seem like we were at home in the US. Just another day, doing our chores.
We shoved our clothing into a big machine, not paying attention to separating the whites from the darks, and hoped for the best. Standing before the big, gray washer we surmised, from our very limited Italian language skills, that we needed to put a certain amount of our Euros into the slot, but it wasn’t clear how to set the time or the cycle or how to even push start. Flummoxed, we laughed and said, “Well. That seems much like our Italian experiences thus far.” Loved the country. Did not love the inefficiency. (Like going into the post office and being told that they didn’t actually sell stamps there.) We were stumped, even after consulting our pocket-sized Rick Steves Italian to English dictionary. We were the only customers and no one seemed to be managing the shop, so there was no official consult available. After randomly pushing buttons, the behemoth unit started churning. We both let out a cheer and sat down with our books to wait out the swishing and churning until our clothes were fresh and wearable again.
Soon after the wash cycle began, we noticed the set of televisions bolted to the wall above the machines. There were three of them strategically placed so that you could see two from the chairs set against the walls and one from the small table area where you could fold your clothing. All of them were tuned to the same channel that appeared to have a Shakira video stuck in a loop. The sound of the washers and dryers drowned out the sound, but we could hear just the faintest, “Hips Don’t Lie” over and over. We didn’t really understand. Was this some sort of Italian laundromat craze or were we watching a pop video channel that got stuck? But it made us laugh aloud and dance around the spinning washing machines with some abandon. A silly and effervescent moment among the bubbles and smell of Italian laundry soap.
Our clothes got clean. We went on to happily enjoy a few more days in Firenze with all of the art and food and gelato and 2006 Italy World Cup winning that we could handle. For sure, every time “Hips Don’t Lie” is played anywhere, I am taken right back to that tiny laundromat in Florence with the incomprehensible directions, Shakira in a loop with all of her hips and hair, and the laughter that it injected into our adventure.
I really think that it is these little moments that make travel and travel experiences so delightful. Sure the Uffizi and Ponte Vechio and David and the Duomo were amazing, but it is that moment, in that unassuming lavanderia a gettoni, that sticks in my memory and delights me to this day.
And for the record, we also experienced something similar in Paris. “Blurred Lines” by Robin Thicke coming from an apartment across the street from the laverie. On loop. Over and over. I think I need to do more laundry in other countries.
