The sterility of a hospital---the excessively chemical nature of the cleanliness---is matched, in some bizarre prelude to hell, by framed reproductions of "great art" hanging on the walls of my room--"official art", as a friend might say.  As if in fulfillment of a law of kitsch, there is, as there must be, a Van Gogh among the reproductions.

Add to this the incessant tapping---not ceasing entirely, there are pauses--which seems to come from a room above me.  And, of course the traffic noise from the nearby street.  I notice that there are fewer motorcycles.  They seem to be the source of pleasure on weekends---a very capitalist sort of pleasure for people who have been degraded all week in what they have to do in order to earn their daily bread.  People who seek to escape, their heads full of degraded images of happiness courtesy of the propaganda system.

At times, in my disgust at the people around me, I nearly equal Plato's arrogance.  But this is an attitude toward people in the abstract, not for anyone I've actually ever spoken to.

I wanted to write, however, of the insanity of washing machines, or the insanity they provoke from the local inhabitants...........

As I have written here before of my difficulties with washing my clothes, I shall assume the reader remembers the broad context.  Here, for foreigners employed by or studying at the university, there is, in effect, a shortage of washing machines.

I was, at the start of the month, compelled to move from my usual accomodation to a desultory and uncomfortable room in what they call a "hotel".  I must go to a different building when I want to wash my clothes.  (Curiously, I know that upstairs in this very building, there actually are washing machines.  But, that seems not to matter.)

And, yesterday, as I was retrieving some clothes in a different high-rise, I had a conversation with the custodian, the door-keeper.  She told me that this building would be shutting down until school started.  I wondered where I would was my clothes.  The washing machines in a second building were now broken.

She calculated that I would be allowed to return to my normal residence in ten days.  And, with a friendly smile, she assured me that I had just washed my clothes, and so, I wouldn't need to wash my clothes again for the next ten days....

What presumption!  What brutal condescension!

Worst of all, she believed that she was being helpful or friendly.

I am still reeling in disbelief at this utter stupidity.  Do I need someone else to tell me when and how often I am going to wash my clothes?

To call this "Eastern Europe" just doesn't go far enough.  I need some even stronger expression.