August 7, 2010:  You know you’re stressed out and livin’ on the edge of sanity when a trip to the laundromat can nearly bring you to tears.  I had some idea that it might come to this so for this reason I have been avoiding it.  However, I was out of socks, underwear and my jeans were stretched out beyond recognition so doing laundry could not be put off any longer.  The day had come, it was time for me to learn how to do my laundry in Buenos Aires.

I know that it is customary for laundry to be “sent out” here.  Similar to dry cleaning, you bring the clothes in, they wash, dry and fold and then you pick up, or they deliver, the finished product.  I am very particular about my laundry, especially my undergarments.  I am not inclined to let someone else wash them for me.  Plus, I figured that would cost more so I opted to use the machines myself.  I thought it should be easy enough.  I had been collecting coins all week and had stopped at the Korean grocer for laundry detergent so I figured I was armed with the proper equipment.

I soon found that using the machines yourself was easier said than done.  First glance at the machines told me I was in for it.  Unlike laundromats I am accustomed to in the States, there was no posting of the cost for a wash.  Instructions were absent as well.  Looking like a deer caught in the headlights at a total loss as to what to do I turned to the woman who was working there.  She was bright enough to pick up on the fact that I was clueless and made the correct conclusion that I probably wouldn’t understand a word she was saying so she spoke slowly and clearly and for that I was grateful.  Even at that though the most I understood was that it was 6 pesos to use the little machines and 10 pesos to use the big machine and then she said something about the dryers but I didn’t catch it.  I stood there for a few seconds absorbing this info when she asked what I would like to do.  “¿La chica?”  was all I managed to squeak out.  She told me I would have to wait for la chica number 2 to finish.  Ok, so far, so good.  I take a seat and wait.

Presently the grumpy looking old man who works there waved to me that number 2 was done.  Ok, show time…and I have stage fright.  I wasn’t thinking about the fact that 25 centavos here is not the equivalent of a quarter, it’s more like 6 cents.  So, if all the 25 centavo pieces that were weighing down my purse were quarters, and I were doing laundry in, say, San Diego, CA, I’d have more than enough for a wash and dry.  Seeing as they were only worth a fraction of the value I was assigning them in my head and, given the prices that the woman had quoted me, I felt my stomach drop when I made the realization that I didn’t have enough fucking coins to do my laundry!  I was pretty sure the grumpy old man wouldn’t make change for me but on the off chance that he MIGHT take pity on my foreign ass I asked him, “¿Solamente monedas?”  He said something that I took to mean that I don’t need to put coins in the machines and then he said a lot else that I didn’t get, particularly he kept saying something about a “ficha”.  As I had no idea what a ficha was I stood there like an idiot.  It was at this point that I felt the lump swell up in my throat.  I just need some clean freaking underwear!!!  I just wanted to be home…  Oh no, it had hit, in the middle of the laundromat, my first wave of homesickness was washing over me.  But this was not the time or the place!  I had business to take care of and grumpy old dude was lookin’ at me like he wanted to tap me upside the head to knock an answer outta me.  All I could do was shake my head and mumble that I didn’t understand.  “Ponga la ropa!” he said impatiently, motioning to the machine.  “Put the clothes in!”  That I understood.  Ok, I put my clothes in the machine but I was still clueless as to how the rest of it was gonna go down.

I was wondering if grumpy old dude would get pissed at me for over filling the machine or not; I didn’t know how much was too much for one machine (I don’t front load at home!) and the thing looked pretty small so I thought I’d err on the side of caution and try to avoid grumpy old dude’s wrath by filling only half way.  When he came back I asked if I could also use la grande for my pillow, towels and jeans.  He said yes and proceeded to dump detergent, fabric softener and fragrance (man, they like to perfume their laundry here!) into la chica.  Oh, well, I guess I didn’t need to buy that detergent at the tienda afterall.  He did the same for la grande and then he told me, “Media hora.”  Okay, I’ll sit and wait half an hour. 

Media hora passed and I was given a basket to take my clothes out of the washer.  I looked to the woman again to guide me as to what I was supposed to do next.  She asked if I wanted to dry.  I nodded, “Yes.”  She told me I would have to wait for number 11.  Okay.  I was told to stash my basket in the corner.  Done.  Sit and wait.

About ten minutes later she motioned to me that the dryer was empty and then asked me, “Una o dos?”  What the hell…  “No entiendo.  Una o dos ¿qué?”  One or two what???  “La ficha.  ¿Una o dos fichas?”  Again with the damn ficha!  What is this ficha?  I don’t know this word but it seems to be the key to this whole operation.  She could see me glaze over as I had idea what the hell she was talking about.  “La ficha?” she asked me, holding out her hand to show me two TOKENS.  Oh for Christ’s sake, this whole thing was run on tokens!  Word of the day:  ficha!  Well, how the hell should I know how much a token would get me?  I figured one would cost less than two so I asked for one.  She looked at me doubtfully, placed one token in the machine and then told me to check after it stopped and if I needed more she would put another token in.  I actually understood that.  “¡Bueno!  ¡Está bien, gracias!”

She was right, I needed two fichas to dry.  I asked for another, she put another in, I waited another twenty minutes, paid my bill and finally I was able to leave the nightmare of my first outing to the laundromat behind me.  At least I know what to do next time.

On the way home I figured it couldn’t get any worse than that so I swallowed another fear and went into the quesería (cheese shop).  It was useless for me to even try to talk kilos or grams so I just told the woman, “Sí, el queso azul, por favor.  Solamente un pedazo,” showing her with my hands how large a piece I wanted.  She pointed to a sizeable wedge of bleu cheese and asked me if that was ok.  I told her, “Medio de eso.”  Whether what I said was grammatically correct or not, she seemed to understand me.  She cut the large piece in half, wrapped it up, told me to pay the woman at the end of the counter and I was off with my bag of clean laundry and a wedge of bleu cheese.  Thank God for the little things!