My housemate, Shay, told me there was 20 per cent chance of rain today. He's proved a decent, reliable fellow so far and I took him at his word. So this morning, I left my my clothes hanging on the clothes lines, on the roof, a little longer than I should have.
As you've likely already surmised, that was an error in judgement. It poured. Rivers of rain rushed furiously past my open door and down the stone streets as though eager to get somewhere. My pajamas and sundry other items received the kind of rinse I wasn't able to give them in the courtyard sink when I washed them. Come to think of it, in that regard, the downpour was a blessing.
Our residence has no washing machine, let alone a dryer. But we do have two big concrete laundry tubs, the one in the courtyard and a smaller one in the ante room between my room and Barbara's, and plenty of detergent. You just have to get used to doing the washing the old fashioned way. The trick is to use just the right amount of soap. It's a skill I haven't mastered yet and I've had a bitch of a time getting it out of my jeans.
At one point, Paula's aunt, who does have a perfectly serviceable washing machine -- and lives nearby -- had agreed to take in our washing for a fee. But later she changed her mind. She said she didn't want the responsibility.
It's early evening and I just went up on the roof to check on the degree of wetness of the clothes. After some thought, I decided not to take it down and wash it all over again. I figure the sun will come out tomorrow and disinfect it. But if I don't get the hang of this soap business, I'll probably have to take my dirty clothes by bus to Lecce -- if there's a laundramat there.
We hang our laundry on the rooftop. Perfect, unless it rains.