My triumphant return to the world of international development means a lot more suits and ties in my daily life, and the heat of the White City (dare I call it the WC?) means that my shirts need frequent laundering. Luckily there is a dry cleaner on the same block as my office, so it looks like it should be easy to manage. I made my first trip there last night, and, although my Serbian is slowly progressing, I didn't need too many words to complete the transaction. I just handed the shirts to a woman and she handed me a ticket with the 25th written on it, along with my name, which I gave properly, resisting the urge to transform myself into Brahnko.
One of the interesting things about dry cleaning in the region is that it goes by the name of Hemisko Chistenje--chemical cleaning--a more accurate, though less appealing description of the process. I snapped a picture of the shop this morning, but I was too timid to get close enough to get a good picture of the woman inside, who was folding and ironing up a storm.
One of the interesting things about dry cleaning in the region is that it goes by the name of Hemisko Chistenje--chemical cleaning--a more accurate, though less appealing description of the process. I snapped a picture of the shop this morning, but I was too timid to get close enough to get a good picture of the woman inside, who was folding and ironing up a storm.
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