But it rained today in Prague, and we have been traveling for nearly two weeks without washing clothes.
This struck me as the perfect time to brave the Prague tram system and go to the laundromat.
Mind you, when we arrived here three or so days ago, doing laundry was so foremost in my priorities that it had become an obsession. How long could one wear the same jeans? How many pairs of panties had I brought, exactly? I trotted down to the desk of our turn-of-the-century, backpacker hotel, bearing a bagful of stinky socks and other items, expecting them to be whisked away and scrubbed clean on rocks by a stout blonde laundress who would be delighted to have a few kronor for the task. That day, a pleasant but dim young woman was manning the desk. No, I'm being unfair. I'm sure she isn't dim. It's just that she just doesn't speak English very well. She conveyed to me that one got clothes laundered by going to the laundromat and doing it oneself, madame. Well, okay, I can go next door, no problem, said I.
Nay, nay, All the laundromats in Prague but one have closed, for unknown reasons. In her own convoluted fashion, illustrated with hand motions that only confused me more, she inferred that I must take the tram two stops north to a lovely sounding place called Flora, then change directions abruptly and take a different tram several stops away, to the intimidating Nam Miru, bearing my bag of unmentionables. Good Lord, I thought, and retreated to the room to reconsider the idea of wearing the same clothes for a while.
When we changed our plans and decided to stay in Prague three more days before heading to Italy, it became clearer that I must plan an adventure involving soap and water. I would brave the trams!
By this time, an even more pleasant but fluent young woman was at the desk. She made it absolutely clear to me how one used tickets on the tram, inserted them in a reader, discerned where the stops were and what they were named, and how helpful everyone would be at the laundromat. This I saw as a blogworthy undertaking.
Armed with tram tickets, more money than I needed, the desk clerk's written directions, a map of Prague, and the now-bulging bag, I stepped out the door and made for the tram stop across the street, where I mingled with blonde schoolchildren, grim-faced Slavic men, and sturdy women bristling with umbrellas. Once on the tram, I looked for the designated card reader and tried unsuccessfully to cram my ticket into it. It wouldn't go, but a friendly girl showed me that I was being too tentative about it.
Two stops later, as promised, I was at Flora and changed trams. For some reason I didn't need to do anything further with my ticket. I wondered if one could ride trams with impunity here, without doing a thing with these tickets. I'll try that another day and see if the policie get me.
Just as I was beginning to think that Nam Miru wasn't in this direction, there it was. I asked directions to the laundromat street and began trekking past antique shops, salons, convenience stores.
Andy's Laundromat was clearly marked, and I stepped inside. It had the look of an Internet cafe, clean, comfortable, with tables, a coffee machine, and a counter with a bell to call the attendant. I didn't have to ring the bell, because this fellow was all over the place, constantly. He spoke excellent English, asked me if I needed soap, got the washer started, asked what temperature I would like, if I wanted the clothes dried. (Well, yeah. I'm traveling an hour to get here and back.) When I asked him if he was Andy, he laughed and said, "No, that is Andy," indicating a portrait of a fluffy white dog sitting in a dryer.
"Is he still alive after all that?" I asked.
"Oh yes. He's in back. Sometimes he comes out, it's always up to him whether he visits or not."
How many laundromats do you know that have free wifi, complimentary coffee, a canine mascot, and a sunken waiting room upholstered with cushy red couches, matching striped cushions, and jolly Czech Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum dolls, its walls decorated with whimsically dark Czech silhouettes of goblins and knick-knacks.
And a stack of guest books with glowing reviews from all over the world.
When I wandered out to the front desk during wash cycle, none other than the eponymous Andy came trotting out to sniff at a girl typing, oblivious, on her tablet. People all over Prague have impeccably trained dogs and pay no attention to them whatsoever. I've seen these animals sitting like statues outside of cafes and shops, waiting on alert for their masters. Being the owner of horribly spoiled dogs who need muzzles, I asked the attendant if Andy might go for a petrified Pupperoni that I'd had in my raincoat pocket for, oh, about two years. Andy came over, but wisely turned up his nose at such a miserable treat. Instead, he flopped over on his back atop my feet and presented his belly for a rub. I obliged, and he lay there across my sneakers for a good minute. I felt truly honored. No Pupperoni required.
I wrote him and the entire establishment up--at length and illustrated--in the guest book. A girl there helped me write the Czech word for "Hi!" in Andy's speech balloon.
As I was leaving, I thanked the attendant profusely and asked if I might take his picture, to add to my collection of friendly faces from our trip. "What's your name," I asked.
"Andrew."
Of course.
