Ode to Laundry

I knew I was going to miss New York spectacularly, and I have not disappointed myself in this respect. Obviously, I long for the predictable NYC staples, like Central Park, the West Village nightlife, and the ubiquitous froyo joints (duh). Even more obviously, I miss the subway. But in the two times I've revisited Manhattan since my departure two months ago, even I have been surprised by what evokes pangs of nostalgia. The smell, for instance. Yes, you can laugh. For those of you who can't conjure up an olfactory image of what New York smells like, may I refer you to Christopher Solomon's recent description in City Room: "you always smelled like Spent Camel Lights, and warming urine, and the No. 14 bus - a perfume I never could quite embrace." (In my defense, New York also consistently smells of food - that's got to be what I miss, right?)

But there is another component to the perfume particular to Manhattan: the cloying scents that waft out from the laundromats that punctuate its streets. If the subway is my favorite New York social institution to analyse, the laundromat is a close second. The washer/dryer-less state that screams of poverty anywhere else in the nation is an accepted fact of life in New York City. The idea of having room for a washer/dryer in the average NYC apartment is laughable at best. And so New Yorkers flock to laundromats in droves, toting their dirty clothes in granny carts that, once again, would elicit jeers and sneers outside of the nation's hippest city.

When I, privileged suburban kid that I am, arrived in New York and was told that I, too, would be reporting to the laundromat with regularity, I was less than thrilled. Laundry is heavy. Laundry is expensive (especially in New York). Laundry is time-consuming. I could have written you a novel about the things I would have liked to do instead of carrying my duffel bag (I was too cheap to invest in a granny cart - bad move) full of dirty clothes to Ms. Bubbles in the rain. Laundromats are dirty. They are crowded. The machines often don't work. If you run out of quarters or forget something, you're out of luck.

But doing laundry, I gradually discovered, is a social bonding experience. As the subway is the perfect microcosm of the metropolis, so is the laundromat the perfect microcosm of the neighborhood. Local culture thrives amidst the whirring and clanking of the machines. Harried Hispanic mothers sing to their toddlers. Columbia undergrads study their biology flashcards. Elderly African-American women counsel the clueless Columbia co-eds on how to separate their colors. Should a washing machine selfishly gobble up your quarters and refuse to give them back, you can rest assured that everyone in the sweltering, overly-perfumed room will offer you a sympathetic look - and, if you're lucky, some extra quarters. They've all been there, after all.

It never ceases to amaze me how, behind its polished façade of anonymity, New Yorkers manage to assert and satisfy their need for human connectedness in ceaselessly innovative ways. By the end of the year, I loved going to the laundromat, even when I was so busy that I had to do it late at night. The laundromat was my secret community. And I miss it. Here in New Haven, I am blessed with a washer and a dryer in my kitchen. I don't even have to contend with stairs. It is easy. It is efficient. It is free. And it is a ritual that has been robbed of its meaning.