This room felt like magic. Like laundry-magic, if that’s a thing.
Bright white tablecloths, freshly laundered, were hung to dry in this room. The combination of laundry (and its wind-led dance), the stone floor (look how those tiles are laid on a diagonal with the room), a chandelier, those yellow walls, the columns: you see what I mean about magic.
I hope I never forget what it felt like to stand in this room.
Now I don’t know for sure that the resident up there on the second floor hung out the laundry when they did in order to get a shaft on sunlight on it while it dried. All I know for sure is that when I saw it hanging there above my head, the sun was shining on the clean clothes and was not shining on much else.
I have to say that my town seems really boring after experiencing the vibrant life on Palermo’s narrow streets. The dullness of it makes me miss Sicily. It makes me miss Sicily quite a bit.
My mom told me one time that her Aunt Debbie had a technique where she’d fold a fitted sheet as she was taking it down from the clothesline. I can barely fold one that’s in a pile on the bed and warm from the dryer.
But, anyway, I saw laundry on the line nearly every day of our trip to Nova Scotia.
Mavillette, Nova Scotia