My Fight with the Washer/Dryer

When choosing my apartment, I was thrilled to find one with a washing and drying machine. Unfortunately my excitement was premature; only after arrival in this country did I realize that the French are really, really bad at building practical washers and dryers.

It first occurred to me in the south. There, laundry was an all day affair. The washing machine took several hours at minimum, and laundry must be dried on the line by six or seven (when the moisture of the evening sets in), so you were limited to two loads a day.

But in the south, it didn’t matter. In the south, everything’s used and old; the car is on its last legs and the washing machine’s even older. In the south, everything moves slower anyways so it’s ok if laundry takes too long. In the south, when your precious linens are finally ready to return to your closet, they smell of sea salt, lavender and eucalyptus. In the south, I loved doing laundry.

But Paris is different. I left my passion for slow, laundry-filled days with my white linen skirts in the hazy Riviera and was eager to return to civilizations, where things work and work well.

At first, I was optimistic. My machine in Paris is at least a decade newer than the one at Camarat. But it’s impossible.

A) It’s one machine. I had never previously seen a washer turn into a dryer as soon as the soap was all rinsed out.
B) It’s all in French. I’m learning, but I certainly don’t know the intricacies of electronics and laundry.
C) Once it starts, it never stops.

"C" I learned the hard way as I prepped to wash my newly purchased and immediately stained white sweatshirt. Panic ensued when I realized the heat of the dryer was shrinking the cotton and there was nothing I could do to stop it. I sat, eyes intently staring through the glass door to the tumbling clothes within, anxious for the end to come. Hours later, it did.

Would it still fit? Desperate to discover if I already ruined my newest article of clothing, I immediately put it on. It fit, but there was something more surprising than that – it hurt. A lot.

A moment too late I realized why: The zipper was f***in’ hot.

And now I have the mark to prove it: