Jottings from the Granite Studio

I’ve been spending the last month of my summer vacation in France with YJ doing the 陪读 thing. Like a strange birthmark that doesn’t seem all that cancerous but never quite goes away, I’ve come to accept France. For example, jogging in France not only keeps me fit it makes me nimble dodging the regularly spaced parcels of la merde de chien. (Everything sounds nicer in French.) There’s also the trolly system in Bordeaux with the train tracks decoratively blended into the stones in the street and the streamlined electric trolly cars noiselessly carrying their passengers to and fro. In fact, the tracks are so well blended and the trollies so efficiently quiet that the only way you know you’re on the trolly tracks is to look over your shoulder and see a three-ton train bearing down on your ass. Not good times.

Today’s trip to the laundromat confirmed for me that I’m not only inept in China, I’m also equally inept in Europe. I am pleased, just tickled really, that my lack of cool translates so well internationally. I went to the laundromat with all of our (YJ and my) laundry in my backpack. The door is locked. It is 9:00. The sign says “Open from 7 30 - 19 30.” I am perplexed. I am confused. I am a sweating overweight foreigner carrying a bag full of dirty clothes and standing in the middle of the sidewalk. I pull on the door. Nothing. There is a sign that says, in French, “Press Here.” I press. There is a buzz. This is promising. I wait. No reply. Another buzz. The interior is devoid of life. It is lifeless. I go next door to a little coffeeshop.

Owner: “Bonjour”

Me: “Bon-joor, la lavarie est 关门了 guanmenle?” Good Morning. The Laundromat is guanmenle?

I’m not too bright. My brain only has two circuits: “English” and “Not English.” In moments of stress, especially after speaking Chinese with YJ all morning, my brain somehow assumes all non-English speakers to be C-3PO, fluent in over 1 billion forms of communication..

Owner; Quoi? Un café crême, emporter. Tout suite! (Translation: I have no idea what this idiot is saying, but it’s a coffeeshop so what the hell else could he want.)

Me: Non, Non, No coffee. Lavarie 没开门 mei kaimen? The laundry is 没开门 mei kaimen ?

Owner: (Frowning, this foreigner is making fun of him.) Lavarie, oui, (switches to English) is next to the door.

Me: Thank you.

Owner: That will be 1 euro for the coffee.

I go back to the laundromat. Still locked. I sit on the sidewalk. An old woman who may or may not have taken Charles de Gaulle’s virginity walks up to the laundromat.

Me: C’est 关门了guanmenle.

The old woman frowns. (This foreigner is on drugs. As are all Americans.) She pushes the putton. It buzzes. She pushes the door. It opens. Aha! A previously unknown second step. The sign said “Push here.” It didn’t say, push button, then push door. Stupid laowai!

We did our laundry together. Since I’m playing househusband this week, she got to watch me folding YJ’s unmentionables. Since this is France, the old woman didn’t even blink an eye at this. That General De Gaulle must have been into some kinky stuff, I say.

“Quoi?”

“算了吧 suanleba.”