Domestic Arts 101
I don't do laundry. Not in the US. Usually. It's not that I've dug into some kind of fertile feminist planting ground. I'm not making a statement. My husband prefers to do the laundry. He is particular about how it is done. And he has heard the horror stories from my children about shrinkage and colorization of white underwear. I suppose even a person fully secure in their masculinity draws the line at pink underwear. But here in Italy I am my own laundress.
Hanging the wash today on my tiny triangle of a terrazzo, I was reminded of all the domestic tricks my housekeeper, Giovanna, has taught me. She came to me 7 years ago, my second one here. She is a combination cultural,liason and big sister, even though she is much younger than me. Her Italian domestic experience greatly pre-dates mine. You may think "Laundry is laundry. How can it be so different? " Ahhhh....because it is!
Italy's space is much more confined than in the US. It is a much smaller country - about the same square mileage as the state of Arizona. Given that, and the fact that so much of the developed areas are squeezed in between numerous mountain ranges (but aren't they beautiful!), you have limited space. We in the US are used to spreading out : lush lawns circumnavigating McMansions, warehouse sized SUV's, malls with parking lots spread eagle like a sultan on his harem bed. We are of the "gimme land lotsa land under starry skies above" mentality. But here (unless you are a church), you will most likely have to make due with a starry sky from a postcard sized balcony. So common tasks like hanging 3 sets of bedsheets on one 12-foot washline present a challenge. Nope, no dryer. Like most Italians. Why throw money away on expensive electricity when you have a sky-wide solar unit on the premises?
My first year here I was confounded as to how to do a rapid turnover of guests with sonlittle drying space. I panicked and draped sheets, towels, dishclothes, rugs over every possible pendant surface in the house.
Enter Giovanna in year two.
My first week back, she poked her head out of the back door at a quizzical angle as I was wrestling sheets onto the line.
"Teresa, che fai? she trilled [Teresa, what are you doing?]
I explained my exasperation with the lack of drying space as I spread my arms to indicate the amount the hanging sheets had already eaten up and then pointed to the remaining pile in the laundry bag.
"No,no,no,no!" she clucked as she came down the back stairs.
She tore the sheets from the line in one quick, light move, then folded them in precise quarters and tossed them back on the line. No clothespins necessary. Their weight held them on the line.
"Waste of time," she told me.
She repeated this domestic ballet twice more with the other sheets. There were about 3 feet of remaining line space onto which she hung 6 towels by letting them sag in the middle and touch corner to corner, one clothespin per two tangential corners. Two hours later, from the combination of sun and warm breeze, everything was dry. There were plenty of fresh, clean linen and towels ready well befor the next guests arrived.
She has taught me other things/
The fastest setting on the washing machine to get the cleanest clothes using the least water.
How little time it takes for espresso to be ready.
That tomatoes taste best left unrefrigerated and eaten soon after buying.
How to strategically open and close shutters and double paned windows to keep the house cool. Or warm. Or breezy. Or however you like at the moment.
I’ve seen how much I can do with how little- space, time, energy (both my own and the kind I pay other people to provide), things. It seems much more relaxing, reassuring to live this way, without the anxiety of “Is there enough?”
It’s another welcome re-set for my psyche that being here provides.
Oh, but I still sometimes turn underwear pink.
