Yaraye
VIP
I went to Umrah for a month, alxamdulillah. It was a spiritually fulfilling trip… but not so much for my laundry.
One and a half weeks in, I ran out of clean clothes. My aunt, being the problem-solver she is, decided to ask the Indian housekeeper at our hotel about laundry options. He informed us that the hotel offered dry cleaning—for a price. Naturally, this set us off on a mission to negotiate like pros.
So down to the hotel basement we went, bags of clothes in tow. The housekeeper introduced us to the dry-cleaning team’s manager, a friendly, middle-aged Arab man with solid English skills and a warm smile. My aunt and he hit it off instantly, chatting about everything—where we were from, our purpose for the trip, if the hotel pillows were to our satisfaction, you name it. After some intense haggling, we agreed: small garments were $3, big ones were $5. Seemed simple enough.
And so the "fashion show" began. My aunt and I, armed with bags that could’ve rivaled Santa’s, started pulling out clothes one by one. Each time, the manager would announce the price, and his assistant scribbled it down. Occasionally, my aunt would unleash her secret weapon: The Bargain Stare. After a bit of back and forth, the manager would sigh and lower the price. Classic.
We were nearing the end of this epic pricing saga when I reached into the bag and pulled out…a bra.
I pulled it out, completely unfazed, but the manager froze like he had just seen a ghost—or maybe a jinn. His eyes widened, his jaw dropped, and he just stared at it like it was a foreign object from another dimension. My aunt, oblivious, asked, “Brother, is something wrong?”
He finally broke his silence, speaking in a voice so serious it felt like a courtroom verdict: “Sister, I cannot wash that."
Confused, my aunt pressed, “Brother, why can’t you wash it?”
The manager’s face was a mix of horror and disbelief. He looked at my aunt, then at me, both of us modestly dressed in jilbabs and abayas, and back at the offending bra. We were both modestly dressed which only seemed to amplify his confusion. His face screamed, What kind of plot twist is this? He shook his head like he couldn’t believe he even had to explain, “Sister… we do not wash ladies’ stuff here.”
My aunt tilted her head. “Why not, brother? It’s just a piece of clothing.”
Finally, as if to save himself from further mental anguish, he declared, “Take it back. Please, just… take it back.”
In the end, the man refused to touch the bra and, perhaps as a peace offering, slashed $10 off the total bill. My aunt and I left with our dignity intact, our clothes discounted, and our bras firmly back in the bag. Moral of the story? Don't add bras to your dry cleaning clothes in muslim countries, It's ceeb.
One and a half weeks in, I ran out of clean clothes. My aunt, being the problem-solver she is, decided to ask the Indian housekeeper at our hotel about laundry options. He informed us that the hotel offered dry cleaning—for a price. Naturally, this set us off on a mission to negotiate like pros.
So down to the hotel basement we went, bags of clothes in tow. The housekeeper introduced us to the dry-cleaning team’s manager, a friendly, middle-aged Arab man with solid English skills and a warm smile. My aunt and he hit it off instantly, chatting about everything—where we were from, our purpose for the trip, if the hotel pillows were to our satisfaction, you name it. After some intense haggling, we agreed: small garments were $3, big ones were $5. Seemed simple enough.
And so the "fashion show" began. My aunt and I, armed with bags that could’ve rivaled Santa’s, started pulling out clothes one by one. Each time, the manager would announce the price, and his assistant scribbled it down. Occasionally, my aunt would unleash her secret weapon: The Bargain Stare. After a bit of back and forth, the manager would sigh and lower the price. Classic.
We were nearing the end of this epic pricing saga when I reached into the bag and pulled out…a bra.
I pulled it out, completely unfazed, but the manager froze like he had just seen a ghost—or maybe a jinn. His eyes widened, his jaw dropped, and he just stared at it like it was a foreign object from another dimension. My aunt, oblivious, asked, “Brother, is something wrong?”
He finally broke his silence, speaking in a voice so serious it felt like a courtroom verdict: “Sister, I cannot wash that."
Confused, my aunt pressed, “Brother, why can’t you wash it?”
The manager’s face was a mix of horror and disbelief. He looked at my aunt, then at me, both of us modestly dressed in jilbabs and abayas, and back at the offending bra. We were both modestly dressed which only seemed to amplify his confusion. His face screamed, What kind of plot twist is this? He shook his head like he couldn’t believe he even had to explain, “Sister… we do not wash ladies’ stuff here.”
My aunt tilted her head. “Why not, brother? It’s just a piece of clothing.”
Finally, as if to save himself from further mental anguish, he declared, “Take it back. Please, just… take it back.”
In the end, the man refused to touch the bra and, perhaps as a peace offering, slashed $10 off the total bill. My aunt and I left with our dignity intact, our clothes discounted, and our bras firmly back in the bag. Moral of the story? Don't add bras to your dry cleaning clothes in muslim countries, It's ceeb.
