The Hillbilly Viking

After yesterday’s unexpected foray into extreme tourism, we decided that our mud-covered clothing deserved a play date with a washing machine or the last leg of our journey in Porto was going to be done primarily in the nude, and I only advocate public nudity at the KLM lounge in Amsterdam. The hotel desk clerk (and Jennifer Garner stunt double) pointed us to a lavanderia back in Ribeira Grande. And since nothing screams zany, vacation, funtime hotspot like “laundromat,” we eagerly popped ourselves back into the Renault, unfazed by its bitchy, blinking dashboard icons, and heady with the thought of introducing our delicates to the community DNA melting pot that is public laundry.

Ok, truth be told, we tend to pack light, so we are no strangers to doing laundry in other countries, and I’m reasonably sure that the self-cleaning nature of the process sanitizes thoroughly enough (although that weird, new rash on my chest is getting bigger). Also, trying to solve the idiosyncrasies of operating public laundry in different countries is a brain-stretching exercise that should keep our dementia at bay at least long enough for us to fully comprehend the elderly abuse we will undoubtedly suffer in the hands of hourly employees not monitored by the children we never had.

Wow, that last sentence got surprisingly dark, fast, even for me. Desculpa.

Years ago, Patty’s dad, Henry, and I visited a lavanderia in Florence to do a mid-vacation refresh of our wardrobes (lavanderia: it’s the same word in Italian as it is in Portuguese except Italians don’t go all psychedelically off-script when pronouncing it). The lavanderia was empty save one, older Italian women waiting for her clothes to finish (and not a minute too soon by the looks of her outfit). I went about deciphering the Rosetta Stone that is Italian laundry instructions while Henry sat down next to the woman and began conversing with her. Even with my back to them, I could hear enough of Henry’s rusty Italian to know that he was regaling her with the story of how his poor parents immigrated from a war ravaged section of Italy to the US and then selflessly helped others do the same (actions that would promptly land them in an ICE detention facility now). It’s a good story, though, and Henry’s excited voice and unmistakable laugh were about all I could hear.

Once I got our two loads going along the single wall of machines opposite Henry and his new girlfriend, I went and joined them. Henry was going strong with the enthusiasm that comes from rediscovering a language he had all but forgotten from his youth. His new friend occasionally interjected with a word or two. Some I understood, some I didn’t. But I did come to understand that her responses were completely unrelated to Henry’s story and were random at best. It was about that time I also realized that of the 10 or so washing machines in the small space, only the two I had loaded were running, and that’s when I experienced the light bulb moment. Henry’s new friend was actually a crazy, street rando who had wandered in sometime before us to get warm, stare at empty washing machines, and babble Italian nonsense. Way to go, Henry! (Although a solid case could be made that she was still an upgrade from his then current girlfriend.)

Anyway, it wasn’t much longer after that when our awkward, new relationship was broken up by a smartly dressed, Italian man who came in and shooed her away with a barrage of “Tu vais!” (you go) and a somewhat sheepish, “Mi dispiace” to us. It seems we had met the owner and he was sorry.

Patty and I met no owners or other staff at the lavanderia in Ribeira Grande, as it was entirely self serve. There were cameras though, so I suspect we would have quickly been introduced to management if Henry’s old flame showed up. While Patty sat in a chair to give her ankle a break and watch the machines twirl (just another crazy Italian woman), I popped over to the farmacia for an ankle wrap and whatever is Portuguese for Excedrin.

Once our laundry odyssey was over, we headed to the south end of the island and enjoyed another amazing, seaside meal featuring more fish with their heads still attached. Frankly, after yesterday, that was about as extreme as our adventure needed to be today.