Page 110 of The Vacation Mix-Up
A few people whistle their astonishment, and guilt once again washes over me for having a hand in Brittany paying a visit… and a price.
“Don’t,” Riley hisses.
I side-eye him. “Don’t what?”
“You know what.”
Annoyed he can so easily read me, I frown and move forward, following Gabriella along the i95, which is roughly ten-feet wide with many safety protocol posters on the walls and doors lining the sempiternal passage. One has a list of emergency codes, some phonetic and others with colors, so I pause for a moment to study it.
“Let’s pray we don’t hear Code Kilo announced,” I say to Riley. “If we do, according to this, it means we’re going to be evacuated.” I scroll down the list. “Or Code Bravo. Oh my God! Could you imagine if there was a fire on board?”
My body shudders.
“I’m more worried about that one,” he says, pointing to Code PVI.
I read the description and laugh. “You’re more concerned over someone vomiting in a public area than the ship going up in flames?”
“Yep. I don’t do puke.”
I shake my head at him.
“As we head toward the stern to the laundry,” Gabriella calls out, “please stay to your right, and watch your step. The laundry is one of the ship’s busiest hives of activity, and you’ll soon see why.”
We huddle along, past the crew quarters, until we stop in front of a room with many metal-caged carts that are stacked with freshly cleaned linen lined up along the passageway, crewmembers greeting us in their various dialects as they edge past.
“Before we enter, please note it may be hard to breathe from the steam. If any of you are uncomfortable, let me know, and I’ll escort you out.” Gabriella opens a door, and we file in behind her. “Let me just see if I can find our Chief Housekeeper. I swear she never leaves this room.”
A musty, sharp ammonia scent hits my nose, the room humid and noisy, several industrial machines working relentlessly. White linen as far as the eye can see is bunched on benches, piled in large plastic tubs on wheels, and is neatly folded and stacked in at least a dozen caged carts. Crew members hustle about, sorting and folding, and I watch in awe at the sheer volume of fabric being laundered and at how diligently they go about it.
Guilt once again washes over me, this time for using my towels once before placing them on the floor for our cabin steward to collect. These incredible worker bees have enough labor to do without me unnecessarily adding to it.
“Thank you for waiting,” Gabriella says, returning with a vivacious older woman. “This is Sophia, our Chief Housekeeper. The cleanest lady on the ship.”
Sophia chuckles at her colleague, then holds her arm out. “Welcome to the laundry. We are very busy, eh?”
One of the women on our tour points to a machine folding sheets. “Oh, I need one of those.”
“Ah, yes. My favorite,” Sophia says, lovingly patting the stainless-steel contraption. “Folds into perfect squares. So clever, eh?”
The women nod, the men less enthused.
“The laundry is most important. Without it and my crew, the ship would not function. The restaurants would not have clean napkins, and you… no clean towels and sheets.” Sofia gives us a “blergh” face.
“How many towels do you clean per day?” the same woman from before asks.
“Ah, sometimes we launder ten thousand towels a day.”
“Wow!” I whisper.
“And twenty thousand napkins.”
Twenty thousand? Holy shit!
“But as you see, we don’t do it all by hand, thank goodness. We have many machines to wash, steam, and fold the linen for us, as well as a hard-working staff to collect, sort, and deliver them.” She straightens her shoulders, proud. “Impressive, eh?”
Most of us nod, and after a few minutes of watching the laundering process, we’re escorted back out into the passageway, the fresher, cooler air most welcome.
I lift my hair from the back of my neck. “That was eye-opening.”
