so much for doing laundry

In my dorm, Roche D’Argent, there is one washer and one dryer for the roughly 100 or so students that live here. Tonight, I took a (rather small) laundry bag of all the clothes that I own in this country down to the laundry room to wash them so I would have something to wear tomorrow. I figured since it was late and around dinnertime, no one else would be bothering to clean their clothes. The washing room is in the basement of the building, so I lugged my clothes down the four flights of stairs to the cellar. Once there, I reached the dark, stone-walled underground corridor. On the right, there’s double-doors leading to the outside path to Bâtiment C, another wing of the dorm. To the left, a long hall bordered with bolted, wooden doors marked “Privé” extends towards the lavarie at the end.

As expected, I was the only one in the washing room. I grinned at my luck. There were two grand windows on the left, and outside, a sliver of sun cast a small glow over a tumble of slightly weedy grass. The lonesome washer and dryer stood against the back wall. Nearly everything in the room (as well as the awkwardly-placed, oversized green ping-pong table) looked 50 years old and was covered in a mild layer of dust. I emptied my clothes from the laundry bag (actually just a Monoprix grocery bag) into the washer, and took out my 1 dollar euro pieces to insert them into the metal coin pushslot atop the dryer. I had been told by a friend that it was 2 euros to wash, 1 euro to dry. On the plushslot was written “2 jetons.” How cute, I thought. The French had a little nickname for their one dollar pieces like we Americans have for our quarters. I aligned my euro pieces with the round holes and pushed in the slot. As soon as the euros met the resistance of the top metal, they jumped out. I lined them up to the holes again, this time pushing in slow motion until the euros met the tiny slots through which they were supposed to pass. Looking closely, I realized that the coins were a tad too thick, and a little too tall. But, I figured, maybe I should just try it again because the machine was, after all, a little old, and bound to be a little rusty. Perhaps I had to wiggle the coins in a bit. Five tries later, and still no luck.

I walked towards the window, leaned against the frame, and texted my friend: “Eh…est-ce que tu sais faire marcher la machine à laver?” Do you know how to make the washing machine work? I waited a bit for a reply and squinted outside suspiciously to make sure that no one was watching and having a good laugh at me. Suddenly, I got a brilliant idea–why not try a smaller sized coin? Perhaps I heard the amount of money to put in the machine incorrectly. I closed the washer lid, unzipped my wallet, then emptied the contents of my change compartment on top the machine. The 50 cent piece didn’t work. Neither the 20. Nor the 10. Even the 2 cent piece was still slightly too thick to pass through the anorexic-thin coin slot holes.

By this time, I was pacing around the room, in a nearly frenzied state. I have no clothes, I thought. I have no underwear. I have to give an oral presentation tomorrow. I’m going to have to go to school naked. All the students and the teacher will laugh at me. I’m going to somehow have to make my scarf double as a shirt. I…. Then I remember how the washers and dryers were in Village C, my old dorm at Georgetown. Even though the machines had built-in trays to insert coins, you actually had to swipe your GoCard into a card reader stationed on the wall which would debit $1.25 from your account and activate the machine of your choice. I started frantically looking for a card reader of any kind—scanning the walls on the room, circling the washer and searching it for perhaps some discrete slot on the side of the machine for inserting a debit card. Nothing. I was pretty sure that if anyone had been outside watching me, they were probably rolling around with laughter on the ground by this time.

I covered my face with my hands and leaned over the washer. After a few minutes, I looked up. Small notices were posted on the wall. Who to call if the dryer didn’t work, the email address of the machine mechanic. One insistent flyer demanded that residents not fill the washer more than 3/4 full. Another little poster had the hours of the dorm office staff. From eight to twelve, and from some other time to another time, the staff would be selling something called jetons. My elbow nearly slid off the washing machine. Wait… I thought. I looked down at the little coin pushslot. 2 jetons. I looked back up at the poster that politely stated how much a jeton costs. 1 euro. Suddenly, it clicked. Token. A jeton was a token. I needed a token to operate the washing machine! I shook my head in disbelief, slowly packed up the clothes back into my Monoprix bag, and headed down the hall and back to my room. The office was closed, and would not be open until tomorrow morning.

So now I am going to attempt to wash an outfit by hand, and hope against all odds that it will dry by tomorrow. I hope this works, haha.