Not many things stump me. Perhaps that is a gross exaggeration. Let me say that I can usually figure out how things work–except when it comes to Italian washing machines. There is a clever little machine called Candy. The most recent experience was with a Candy named “Smart.” That should have been the first and most telling clue. But I blithely loaded the machine with clothes and soap only to discover that Candy was smarter than I yet not smart enough to just do the laundry. The home exchanger left instructions, select “N” for the quickest wash and start. Earlier experiences with Italian washing machines made that choice appealing as they can take an unbearably long time. First they fill with water, the water sits there long enough to heat up then the machine sloshes for a spell. Stops, sits, sloshes some more and can take upwards of three hours to complete its cycles of slosh and wait, slosh and wait.

There was no “N” on the dial–anywhere. Cotone, known for the long wait, delicati, the obvious and something with a Tutto on it. I selected Tutto, pushed a couple of other buttons that looked necessary including what looked like temperature but turned out to be time and another the velocity of the spin. Pushed start. Nothing. Pushed start again. Still nothing. Pushed really hard on start until a sort of click. Nothing. Started over again. Nothing worked. Candy won. Later that evening, the exchanger, who fortunately lives in the building, came to the rescue. What he did looked like what I did except when he pushed start, Candy began her little sloshing. I watched, really carefully. I swear I did. His push was a simple push with his thumb, the steps seemed simple enough, took thirty minutes. Laundry in the future should be a cinch.

It was not to be. This morning I set and reset that little devil a minimum of ten times. Every time, after a push of start, nothing happened. The laundry, soap and all, sits there waiting until the return of the exchanger. A sweet-sounding little machine called Candy has truly outsmarted me and I am not pleased. An Aperol spritz is helping but I’m having trouble letting the defeat go.

Perhaps I need a new thumb.