Lesson at the Laverie

Travel Stories: In a Chamonix laundromat, Jim Benning learns that actions speak louder than words. Especially incomprehensible foreign words.

Jeanine laughed, nodding as if to say that she understood. Her eyes gleamed. We grew quiet, both, I think, weary from the labored exchange. Time slowed. Through the front window, we watched women and men stroll past snowboard shops and fondue joints, bundled in scarves and fleece sweaters and wool caps against a late-afternoon chill that had settled over the valley. Hours earlier, I’d looked up from Chamonix’s main street to see Mont Blanc, the Alps’ tallest mountain, shrouded in mist. Now, I imagined a heavy snow falling on its brooding, icy reaches. I found myself smiling, glad to be doing laundry inside Laverie Automatique, sharing part of the afternoon with Jeanine, whoever she was.

When my machine came to a halt, I began pulling damp clothes from the washer and transferring them to a dryer across the room. On my second trip, trying to carry too big a bundle, I dropped a pair of underwear. Jeanine shot me a sympathetic glance. Before I could reach for the shorts, she popped up and grabbed them, happily tossing them into the dryer with a flip of her wrist. As if that weren’t enough, she grabbed the last soggy handful from my machine, completing the job. I couldn’t hold back a big grin.

“Merci,” I said.

She smiled and nodded.

Jeanine’s dryer soon sputtered to a stop. One by one, she removed the shirts and pants, folded them and stacked them carefully in her bag. I pointed to the pile and offered to help, but she waved me away. Moments later, with her laundry bag full, she tugged on her overcoat.

I wanted to tell Jeanine that she was a generous soul, and that, even if it was nothing to her, I appreciated the simple warmth that she extended to me. I wanted to wish her well, and to ask her to give my best to her son. I wanted to explain that doing laundry abroad had never been quite so much fun. I knew my French would never cut it.

Yet I wasn’t filled with the same frustration I’d felt so many times before. Jeanine didn’t let our language differences get in the way of her generosity. In fact, she seemed to understand the old axiom about actions speaking louder than words, louder than incomprehensible foreign words, even when that meant picking up a stranger’s underwear. I hadn’t learned much of Jeanine’s biography, I realized, but I had learned a whole lot about something that transcends language, something more important: heart.

I stood and smiled and offered Jeanine a handshake.

“Merci beaucoup,” I said.

Jeanine smiled. “Merci,” she said. Adding a warm “au revoir,” she strolled out of Laverie Automatique, into the cool Alpine air.


Tags: Family Travel, Languages, Europe, France


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