Time for housework .. off to the laundromat. A darkly handsome Hungarian woman in her mid-thirties runs a place a couple of blocks from the hotel. Her round eyes stare at me from her little windowed "office" at the rear. Her demeanour is surly and unwelcoming. I look uneasily around at the rows of machines then head to the change machine to procure meself some golden pounds.
The washerwoman enters the room, subjecting me to suspicious scrutiny as I struggle to work out what to do. Her supervision makes me nervous. She's wearing a black duffle coat with a fur-lined collar, black leggings and black uggboots with fur fringes at the top.
I open a machine and am about to load it when she says: "I doubt you'll need the big machine." I swivel on my heels 180 degrees to the bank of smaller machines and take in the controls. I don't have a pilot's license.
"I have done this before," I say, my voice quivering, "at home."
She watches.
I get some detergent from the soap dispenser and pause at the receptacles above the washers.
"Now you put a little in the prewash and the rest in here."
I do as she says.
"They're colours. You want warm wash don't you. Turn this knob."
I do as she says.
"Close the door and push this button."
I attempt to close the door three times, not realising it appears slightly ajar when tightly shut. The button finally pushed, the clothes start spinning. I pop myself on a bench by the window and read The Big Issue, British version.
The Hungarian laundress has popped out for two cigarettes since I arrived and she goes out for another. A squat muscular guy with tattooed arms approaches her, who stands perched above him on the steps. He is a type that makes intellectuals feel a little inadequate - and he freely starts chatting with her. About what, I have no idea as the door is closed. He also lights a cigarette. They talk for about five minutes, and, rather petulantly on my part, I wish I could talk to her for that long.
I transfer my clothes to the dryer. Half an hour should be all they need according to my laundmistress. I do as she says and insert enough coins for 30 minutes. A coffee is in order. I drink half of it at the cafe and buy some rollies, hoping if I have a puff outside she'll join me.
Dear reader, do not suppose I wanted to take the woman to the nearest F1 motel, or even see her again. The traveller's thirst for conversation cannot be quenched (unless it is with obnoxious Australian tourists from Brisbane). My thirst for intercourse (dear reader, do not suppose I mean intercourse of the sexual variety) cannot be satiated, travelling or not.
My cigarette finished, I re-enter the house of washing. Taking my place opposite the tumbling accoutrements, I fell into a daydream. I am awoken five minutes later by the laundress suggestively crouching in front of me, placing the affairs of a private client in the dryer beneath mine. Then she turns to me and half smiles, half sighs.
I venture, "I thought it'd be busier today, being the weekend."
She immediately agrees and sits opposite. "Last weekend was very busy. I was running around all day. Where is everyone?"
"This is very rich area," I observe.
"All sorts come here. Businessmen, trades people. Some of them are rude too. They expect me to be always happy and chirpy. But I can't always be, you know, 'hey how are you, nice day'. I can't be like this always if I don't feel like it."
"I completely agree. I've only been here just over a week and've noticed the customer service isn't always chirpy. And I've come to accept that already."
She smiles briefly. "A lot of English are miserable, especially in winter. There is no light, it is cloudy and cold." She hugs herself. "I don't always want to be here. I ran my own business in Holland, but my husband wanted to come here."
"He is English then?"
"Mm."
"How long have you been here?"
"Eleven years. Too long. I wish to be surrounded by sunshine all the year round."
"Why not move to Brisbane?"
"My husband wants to be here."
We look at each other for awhile. Am I the first to turn away, or is she?
"Looking forward to the weekend?"
"I don't get a weekend. I worked twelve hours yesterday."
I gasp with disbelief.
"But I like it. I'm always doing something. I like to be moving. People think, because I work here, I am stupid. I speak seven languages."
"Impressive. I'm always amazed at Europeans. I only speak English and a tiny bit of French - not enough to have a decent conversation. You could be a translator."
"I know, but I haven't sat the certifications."
"You could work online."
"I don't like offices. I get bored and stuffy."
"Why not get a laptop and work in cafes?"
She shrugs her shoulders. "I'm happy here."
We look at each other again half smiling.
"But I've got a bad back. The other day .. this made me miserable. A lady came in and said, why are you so rude. Why are you not happy? I told her I had a bad back and can't be happy all the time. Her look of defiance is immediately followed by a warm laugh.
My clothes had done spinning so I put them in my plastic bag. "Hopefully I'll see you next week."
She gets up. "If I'm still here."
* * *
A few days later I stroll past the laundromat at 8pm. The squat muscular tattooed man is again talking to her. He has his arms on her hips and looks at up her with half innocent, half persuasive eyes. A couple of stairs above, she smokes and looks vacantly into the distance.
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