The quilts Are Three
And as everyone knows, the number three can sometimes be hard to wrap your head around—even if you have unwavering faith to rely on.
The winter quilt is light, warm, and technological. It’s made of those fabrics you don’t really understand, but you’re certain no feathers were plucked from a bird to make it. The mid-season quilt, on the other hand, is heavy, sturdy as military-grade gear, and probably warmer than the winter one. The third quilt is white and airy, like a cloud at the start of summer, and no one really knows where it fits in the calendar year.
I’ll have to ask my wife.
They’ve been piled up on the couch in the home theater for a while now, because in August, winter is a distant memory. Even though the northwest in 2021 never really suffered from the heat, that mountain of fabric and synthetic feathers had become part of the landscape, and the cats had grown quite attached to it. When my wife, in a rush, throws the quilts down the stairwell—taking a couple of pictures off the wall in the process—the cats are shocked, worried that this piece of their world is gone forever. One even sniffs the now-empty spot, searching for an explanation.
The laundromat is part of a Swiss chain. They’re very proud of being Swiss, boasting about their uniquely Swiss cleanliness, their drums that spin perfectly round, and the silence inside their laundromats, as quiet as a cathedral. This one is in a location where you can park right out front. And I swear, I’ve seen skilled professionals, healers, accountants, magicians, and bargain shops go under for no other reason than the lack of parking. The Swiss aren’t stupid, you know. Otherwise, they wouldn’t be outside the EU, their banks wouldn’t be full of money, and they wouldn’t have the privilege of staying neutral during wars.
Self-service laundromats have never really caught on in Italy, especially not in smaller towns. It’s intrusive and risky to load your personal belongings into a public machine. You might end up a cautionary tale, forced to move provinces if one of your items turns out to be too dirty—stained yellow, or worse, brown. Even if it’s just coffee or orange soda, your reputation could be ruined. The same goes for worn-out underwear. If it starts spinning in water and detergent, showcasing its unforgivable decay right in the porthole’s glass under the judgmental eyes of other customers, you’re done for.
They may be Swiss, but one of the machines is out of order. And the solution is very Italian: a piece of masking tape slapped on the start button with a terse handwritten apology in marker. The other machines, though, work perfectly. Even though the elderly woman with her mask pulled down has taken up an entire table, the young woman is waiting for the dryer to finish, and the even-younger woman I ask for help just tells me to read the instructions, the vibe is right.
My Beautiful Laundrette, The Big Bang Theory, Mr. Bean, that classic Levi’s ad. Self-service laundromats have inspired so much cinema. In Anglo-Saxon countries, they’re places where people chat, where romances are born. Here? No one gives a damn.
I barely turn around before the critiques begin—softly spoken, as any good gossip should be.
“That quilt is too heavy. It’s just sliding disgracefully to the bottom of the drum instead of tumbling.” The elderly woman with her mask down says this. But it’s not true. It’s just envy—or that unbearable sense of superiority that arises when watching a newbie. My wife goes to check, but the quilt is tumbling. It tumbles and dances, immersed in a fresh scent, and I see for myself that everything is working perfectly, spinning round like the world itself.
So, I do it. I write a review in the notebook left out for comments. I don’t care if the Bic pen is infected with germs from a thousand hands—I want to say it. No mention of the broken washing machine, because I’m a suck-up, but I lay down a harsh critique of the clientele: “People here don’t know how to mind their own damn business!”
Thankfully, they leave. They fill their Ikea bags—taking an eternity—but they leave.
In all that time, the heavy quilt has been spinning with the drum without missing a beat.
The first confident guy, who of course parked out front, empties an Ikea bag into a machine, says hello, and leaves. He clearly doesn’t fear holes, frayed edges, or suspicious stains.
The second confident guy arrives and carefully loads a machine. His bag is also Ikea, and at this point, I’m convinced they’re part of a cult. He’s a sporty type, and it shows: fluorescent yellow, fluorescent orange, nuclear radiation green. Low-rise jeans, tight shirts, and a cyclist’s outfit. Batman boxers.
He says hello and leaves, and I’m a little jealous of his boxers.
The laundromat is wonderful. Dirty laundry doesn’t get washed at home—not in public either, according to Manzoni—but in the Arno, apparently.
Everything went fine. We picked up the quilts, left the machines to their work while countless little bats endured the spin cycle without complaint, and went in search of an Ikea bag.
The cats, needless to say, are glaring at us with pure disdain.
And as everyone knows, the number three can sometimes be hard to wrap your head around—even if you have unwavering faith to rely on.
The winter quilt is light, warm, and technological. It’s made of those fabrics you don’t really understand, but you’re certain no feathers were plucked from a bird to make it. The mid-season quilt, on the other hand, is heavy, sturdy as military-grade gear, and probably warmer than the winter one. The third quilt is white and airy, like a cloud at the start of summer, and no one really knows where it fits in the calendar year.
I’ll have to ask my wife.
They’ve been piled up on the couch in the home theater for a while now, because in August, winter is a distant memory. Even though the northwest in 2021 never really suffered from the heat, that mountain of fabric and synthetic feathers had become part of the landscape, and the cats had grown quite attached to it. When my wife, in a rush, throws the quilts down the stairwell—taking a couple of pictures off the wall in the process—the cats are shocked, worried that this piece of their world is gone forever. One even sniffs the now-empty spot, searching for an explanation.
The laundromat is part of a Swiss chain. They’re very proud of being Swiss, boasting about their uniquely Swiss cleanliness, their drums that spin perfectly round, and the silence inside their laundromats, as quiet as a cathedral. This one is in a location where you can park right out front. And I swear, I’ve seen skilled professionals, healers, accountants, magicians, and bargain shops go under for no other reason than the lack of parking. The Swiss aren’t stupid, you know. Otherwise, they wouldn’t be outside the EU, their banks wouldn’t be full of money, and they wouldn’t have the privilege of staying neutral during wars.
Self-service laundromats have never really caught on in Italy, especially not in smaller towns. It’s intrusive and risky to load your personal belongings into a public machine. You might end up a cautionary tale, forced to move provinces if one of your items turns out to be too dirty—stained yellow, or worse, brown. Even if it’s just coffee or orange soda, your reputation could be ruined. The same goes for worn-out underwear. If it starts spinning in water and detergent, showcasing its unforgivable decay right in the porthole’s glass under the judgmental eyes of other customers, you’re done for.
They may be Swiss, but one of the machines is out of order. And the solution is very Italian: a piece of masking tape slapped on the start button with a terse handwritten apology in marker. The other machines, though, work perfectly. Even though the elderly woman with her mask pulled down has taken up an entire table, the young woman is waiting for the dryer to finish, and the even-younger woman I ask for help just tells me to read the instructions, the vibe is right.
My Beautiful Laundrette, The Big Bang Theory, Mr. Bean, that classic Levi’s ad. Self-service laundromats have inspired so much cinema. In Anglo-Saxon countries, they’re places where people chat, where romances are born. Here? No one gives a damn.
I barely turn around before the critiques begin—softly spoken, as any good gossip should be.
“That quilt is too heavy. It’s just sliding disgracefully to the bottom of the drum instead of tumbling.” The elderly woman with her mask down says this. But it’s not true. It’s just envy—or that unbearable sense of superiority that arises when watching a newbie. My wife goes to check, but the quilt is tumbling. It tumbles and dances, immersed in a fresh scent, and I see for myself that everything is working perfectly, spinning round like the world itself.
So, I do it. I write a review in the notebook left out for comments. I don’t care if the Bic pen is infected with germs from a thousand hands—I want to say it. No mention of the broken washing machine, because I’m a suck-up, but I lay down a harsh critique of the clientele: “People here don’t know how to mind their own damn business!”
Thankfully, they leave. They fill their Ikea bags—taking an eternity—but they leave.
In all that time, the heavy quilt has been spinning with the drum without missing a beat.
The first confident guy, who of course parked out front, empties an Ikea bag into a machine, says hello, and leaves. He clearly doesn’t fear holes, frayed edges, or suspicious stains.
The second confident guy arrives and carefully loads a machine. His bag is also Ikea, and at this point, I’m convinced they’re part of a cult. He’s a sporty type, and it shows: fluorescent yellow, fluorescent orange, nuclear radiation green. Low-rise jeans, tight shirts, and a cyclist’s outfit. Batman boxers.
He says hello and leaves, and I’m a little jealous of his boxers.
The laundromat is wonderful. Dirty laundry doesn’t get washed at home—not in public either, according to Manzoni—but in the Arno, apparently.
Everything went fine. We picked up the quilts, left the machines to their work while countless little bats endured the spin cycle without complaint, and went in search of an Ikea bag.
The cats, needless to say, are glaring at us with pure disdain.
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