The Laundromat

December 2025

There’s a full-scale resistance in Berlin.
My German laundromat went under the knife last week and switched sides.
Dark for a few days without notice.
A last bastion of the ‘90s no phones /no cards /no tips.
Analog weakened at the base. 

Because yesterday the cheery fluorescents cast the sidewalk in blue again. 
Faded caricature of a woman displaying panties in a garland of bubbles,
lit resolutely from behind.
So, laundry bag nestled between knotted shoulders, I set off.
I must share the same age as this linoleum waschsalon, 
I too briefly knew a time without screens.

This employee-less laundromat has drawn a hard line, stopped digging its heels, made a leap forward, gave in. 
The machine now accepts card. 

Two blocks away, flea market stalls still wage their skirmishes,

Cash only or 
card only or 
cash only card cash card

Patrons passively observe,
offer ammunition for each.
My purse jingles with metal, is drowned out by monophonic beeps-chirps-rings. 
Can you hear the world turning? 
 
And so in the laundry I’m in line behind an old German woman.
The machine has mystified her, 
A crumpled €5 note no consolation 
As she puzzles through the new order with shaky hands. 
She gets there eventually, mutters something I cannot understand.

And in a fluid shameful motion I tap to pay.
Device in commune with device.
I select the “English” option,
but you could now pick German, French, Italian, and Turkish.
A buzzy chirp and I’m let through the red-rope barrier to cleanliness. 
Flag in the sand, I take my laundry, my modern prize.

The cheap smell of lime-y soap and the question of Would I like to add tip?