In Buenos Aires, not speaking Spanish or knowing the customs
makes the most trivial chore quite complex and time consuming,
often requiring multiple attempts for success. I've been here two
weeks and each day I set myself one new task: Today's job? A trip
to the Lavadero (laundromat). I held out as long as possible but
the few clothes I own were threatening to walk out in search of a
good soak and spin.
First I had to find a Lavadero. (It didn't help that I was
calling it a Lavanderia, what they call it in Spain, not
Argentina.) Then I had to get in the door. (They don't open it
until they've decided you're not going to rob them.) Next we had to
agree on a price, 15 peso seemed fair. Now to the final hurdle,
writing my address. I wrote '1707 Callao' and the girl just looked
at me confused. I wrote it again and she shook her head that it
wasn't possible. I was in a hurry to get to class and figured the
address wasn't that important. I'd be back in 3 hours to collect it
but she insisted no address, no wash.
Then there was an almighty screech and bang outside. The
Laundromat attendants all rushed to the door, not brave enough to
step out onto the pavement, watching from the safety of their glass
cocoon. It seemed a man had stepped out onto the road and been hit
by a taxi. I saw him pick himself up and limp/run to his car and
get in the passenger door. From his actions I could see him
instruct the female driver to 'go!' She appeared to be suffering
shock and didn't react quick enough.
In the meantime, the taxi had stopped and run back, I'm guessing
to check he hadn't mortally wounded the guy but then the look on
his face turned to anger as he realised the victim was about to do
a runner. It was the pedestrian's fault and the thump had left
quite a ding in the front of the taxi. By now witnesses were
gathering, the poor wife looked white as a ghost as her (assumed)
husband yelled at her to drive. The taxi driver was yelling, the
husband was yelling, the witnesses were yelling and now the
Laundromat attendants are on the pavement giving their 10 pesos
worth. I got the feeling my laundry wasn't going to be done anytime
soon. The wife eventually responded and put her foot down, speeding
off down the street. The taxi man was wild, everyone started
examining the damage and shaking their heads.
Finally the Lavadero folk returned inside, animatedly discussing
the sequence of events. I was now really late for class so as
politely as possible cleared my throat and indicated towards the
docket. One woman who had a small amount of English came and
questioned me on the address, I said it in Spanish and then in
English and she laughed, uno, siete, cero, siete! She took the pen
from my hand and put a dash through the middle of the 7's. They
laughed at me like an adult does when a child has dome something
silly but stopped short of patting me on the head, probably because
I was twice the height of them. (A seven without a dash is read as
a one here.)
I went outside feeling I'd won a small victory having dealt with
my dirty washing and as I listened to the taxi driver still yelling
expletives it occurred to me that the moral of our story is:
When in doubt, just dash.