In a New York Laundromat

Unless you’re filthy rich, or just filthy, a month-long holiday extravaganza requires a few loads of washing to be done in various cities.  Sure I could have used hotel laundering services, but I wasn’t so keen on paying $9 per item, plus having the hotel do my washing would mean I would miss out on a trip to the Laundromat.

If television is to be believed, a visit to a New York Laundromat is an interesting social occasion.  While washing my smalls I should expect to see someone sitting in the corner, writing the great American novel.  I considered taking my brand new dot-com machine to update my blog, but walking 6 blocks with my washing, washing-powder, and handbag was enough of a handful already.  Besides I had an old school note pad and figured I could be retro cool and break out the pen and paper if the desire overtook me.

Television and the movies has taught me that I would be otherwise stimulated while watching my washing though.  I should expect to see the same amount of people as washing machines, a mix of men and women. I should expect to see clean tables in the middle of the room, where you could neatly fold your freshly laundered washing and place in piles with your knickers suggestively on top for all to see. I should expect to see a hot, young, muscled man walk in and strip off to his undies and throw everything in the machine, and no one would bat an eyelid. I should expect to have a conversation with the dude sitting next to me about … probably where I was from … and that should of course lead to us getting married on a beach in Long Island outside his parent’s house… or something similar.

So with much anticipation, I walked 6 blocks to the Laundromat Café. Expecting to find a Laundromat and a Café in one, I was somewhat surprised to find no café. There was no one writing the great American novel, no even numbers of men and women, no witty conversation between strangers…in fact no one even speaking English, and instead of someone stripping off and throwing all their clothes in the washer, there was a guy standing at the door chain-smoking. Sexy!

Speaking of sexy, here’s a couple of pretty New York pics.

 

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