Frog Blog

i’ve decided to write about the little things i don’t want to forget about my time in france. the memories come to me at the most random times and whenever they do i’m flooded with joy and nostalgia. these tiny memories shaped my experience.

my school provided laundry service for my sheets, pillow cases and dish towels. to get to the laundry room, i had to walk way down into the school’s dark basement. i remember the darkness mostly because in many buildings in france, overhead lights work on a timer: you have to find the switch (usually an illuminated circle panel on the wall) and punch it to turn on the light. the best part is when they turn back off, inevitably when you’ve lost your keys in your purse. or worse, when you can’t find the switch in the first place. imagine feeling along a wall in pitch black trying to locate a light switch.

it took forever to get to the laundry room — i had to enter at one end of the school and walk the entire length to get to clean sheets. luckily, i could walk the whole way inside— handy on those cold and blustery days (like every day). i never experienced cold like i did in france. it was simultaneously a wet and dry cold. does that even make sense? for reals: you know how when it’s about 35 degrees and rainy out? that’s the kind of damp cold that sinks into your bones. but i’m used to that from winters back home. it’s the dry cold i hate — the kind where the ground is frozen but it’s fucking ARID out; nosebleed inducing, flaky skin causing, static hair dry. somehow but my town was a combination of the two: it would rain the tiniest amount; just to make the ground wet and add a chill to the air, then it the wind would pick up and suck out my soul through my coat sleeves. on more than one occasion my toes turned white and numb and it took forever and a warm shower to get the blood flowing again.

but i digress. out of all this cold, the laundry room was beacon of hope: a warm, moist star in a dark, deserted school hallway. there were 3 or 4 women who worked in the laundry. machines were always spinning, irons were always steaming. the school boarded about 100 students (maybe more?), which equals a lot of laundry.

i could only bring school issued linens, the names of which i’d always forget (in french). pillow case: oreillier? or is that pillow? the ladies were so friendly. i’d say bonjour and ca va and i’m sorry i can’t remember the name for dish towel and they’d smile and tell me again and again. i wish i’d written the names down. i wish i could remember the names of the women.

getting back to my tiny studio with clean sheets was a total treat. the sheets were thick, starched, heavy linen. making my bed was a bitch. the bed frame was this heavy ass wooden contraption that was the same shade of blue as the matching armoir, desk and nightstand (i chose the blue room instead of the seafoam green room across the hall). not only was the bed heavy and impossible to move, it was directly against the wall; so navigating the unfitted bottom sheet around the mattress was nothing short of a miracle. no fitted sheets in france! i practically worked up a sweat every time.

but once finished, crawling into that crisp, sweet-smelling bed was bar none. my heater would come on and off throughout the day. its last cycle was at about 9 p.m. it made a small clicking noise that brought me comfort in the quiet.