As it turns out, the washing machine in our nice little apartment, itself located on a nice little street in a nice little neighborhood, sucks; aside from an unholy funk that has proven resistant to industrial-grade washing machine cleaner, it is incapable of handling more than a token amount of clothes at a given time, lest it begin to walk into and then pound away at the nearest wall.
Thus I’m sitting at a laundromat.
Washing machines are apparently incredibly uncommon in Parisian apartments, so I find myself wondering how or where the people at work wash their clothes; does everybody use a laundry service, or is there a designated sit-at-the-laundromat-with-wine-and-maybe-a-non-stinky-cheese day? Are there secret laundry clubs and services that I, as an outsider, are not party to, as the only people that have wandered in are two guys in their late 40s or early 50s and a 20-something dudebro type.
Whatever the case, I’m (still) sitting here, with the Purrito, watching clothes spin.
I will note that I’ve been amused at the older guys; they’re both washing too many clothes at the same time and mixing items that shouldn’t be mixed; bachelor laundry, it seems, is a cross-cultural constant.
Fezzik In Paris 