Since there’s no washing machine in our Parisian apartment, we do laundry down the street. It’s the hub’s job. I went to check on him today, to find him standing sheepishly in an inch of water. Somehow the machine he stuffed a week’s worth of clothes in wouldn’t open and had exploded water everywhere. Imagine that.

Add to the stress was the laundromat’s caretaker, who was mumbling “mierda” and Spang-french, which nobody could understand. He attempted to pry the machine open with a screwdriver. My hub fled the scene.

I thought I detected a bit of Spanish in his ramblings so I asked where he was from. Spain. Of course. So I began my broken Spanish conversation. We’re headed to Barcelona tomorrow. It’s our first time. It’s Dia de los Tres Reyes, no? That will be good for my son.

I could see his blood pressure dropping. Finally he got the machine open. By now he’s feeling oh-so-courteous to me, so told me to wait rather than putting my soap-laden clothes in the dryer. I should wait to wash them again. Heck, he’d even pay since it was the machine’s fault (not his opinion just 20 minutes ago).

Finally, my clothes safe in another washer (stuffed by him, I might add. Clearly the stuffing of 47 articles of clothing was not the cause of the issue), I returned to my apartment. But when I went back, I brought him a bottle of wine.

Es para usted. Por su ayuda.

Like any polite Spaniard, he refused twice, then greedily took the bottle to his back room (did I hear a clink? Like there’s multiple bottles back there??) and came back to help me with my laundry.

Something tells me I have a new friend and a great place to do laundry.