Wash The Day Away

In the grand scheme of things, my abroad experience doesn't rank very high on the "exotic" scale. Up until this point, the language barrier has been fairly porous, thanks more to the compulsory English component of Austrian schools than to my own broken German. The majority of my interactions so far have come under fairly simple circumstances (buying groceries, giving people basic directions, etc.). Today was the first day when I was really walloped in the face by my own incompetence with this language. But first let me go back in time...

I brought almost exactly two weeks worth of clothes with me, and if you consult the nearest calendar you'll see that I've now been in Vienna for exactly two weeks. Consequently, when the sun came up yesterday, I had reached my final day of clean underwear. The laundry machines in the basement of our building required something called a Quick Card, which is basically a debit card which isn't linked to a bank account. Instead you just load money onto it (think bantam bucks). Well, yesterday John purchased a Quick Card for seven euro at the housing office. So, armed with our new card, I wheeled my suitcase of dirty laundry down to the basement of my apartment. I loaded up one of the tiny, European-sized washing machines and poured in some of the frighteningly noxious detergent we had picked up on one of our grocery excursions. When I built up the courage to saunter over to the Quick Card machine, I inserted my card only to be greeted by a big fat goose egg. As it turns out, the 7 euros John spent on the card in no way reflected the actual balance on the card. I ran upstairs in a panic, and furiously searched the Quick Card website for some way to fill the card. I managed to glean that it might be possible to charge the card at an ATM, so I bundled up and head out to the closest ATM. No dice. Dejected I returned to the laundry room to fetch my clothes. Of course, as you may recall, I was wearing my very last pair of clean underwear, so to compound my humiliation, I had to hand wash a pair of underwear in the basement sink. Tempted as I was to follow Murray's advice and dry my underwear in the microwave, I took the more conservative route and let it air dry overnight.

Determined not to repeat the previous night's debacle I set out to find a bank before class today in hopes of charging my Quick Card. After accidentally stumbling into the Volksbank corporate offices instead of the bank itself, a friendly person gave me instructions (auf Deutsch) to find the regular bank. I was feeling pretty proud of myself for understanding her. That didn't last long. Upon finding the regular bank, I butchered the two sentence script I'd anxiously prepared in my head in anticipation of the transaction. Somehow the teller understood just enough of what I said to inform me that I needed to go to a different bank. When I finally made it to the right bank, I recited my little spiel (a little more smoothly this time). Everything seemed to be going well. The teller took my money and my card and started fumbling with his computer. Then, just I thought he was home free he said something totally incomprehensible. The little shred of confidence I had built up was shattered as I stuttered over even the simplest of phrases. Finally, he put me out of my misery, and explained the issue in English. Goddamit. Thwarted again. German language: 1, stupid American tourist: 0.

Well, when I finally set out to do my laundry, smart card in hand, I figured the worst was over. Ha. Boy was I wrong. After repeating the same procedure from the previous night's aborted attempt, I successfully paid for a load of laundry with my smart card. The operative word is paid. I paid for load of laundry, but the promised service was not delivered. After wasting 3 more euros trying to figure out the machines, Alex and I went upstairs to fetch his dictionary, in hopes that maybe I was misunderstanding the directions. Three more euros later, still nothing. Desperate and out of ideas, Alex and I considered knocking on a strangers door to beg for help. But just as we were on the verge of caving, a miracle occurred! From the heavens, a beautiful Italian woman descended from the heavens (or maybe just the fourth floor). I shouted out for her attention, and she turned around. Fortunately she spoke a little bit of English so my normal stammering and stuttering around beautiful women wasn't compounded by the stammering and stuttering of my attempts to speak German. She accompanied us down to the laundry machines and went through the exact same procedure I had repeated in vain 5 times already. At first I was relieved: at least it wasn't my fault. Then, she stepped over to inspect the machine. After maybe a second and a half she discovered that the door was slightly ajar. She promptly slammed it shut, and instantly the machine started. So after 12 American dollars, I successfully did my first load of Austrian laundry. Now I just have to cross my fingers and hope that sometime between tonight and 9 am tomorrow morning the painfully slow dryer can reduce my clothes from sopping to moist.

Tonight's post is dedicated to the beautiful Italian woman who saved me from the indignities of another night of hand washed underwear. I don't remember her name, and there's a good chance I'll never see her again. But wherever you are, I can never thank you enough.

This one goes out to you, mysterious Italian savior.