Hanging the laundry out of the window is a symbol of Italian life. Photo: adogslifephoto/Dreamstime
English Italian

Not many countries in the world make of their clean laundry a street decoration, but Italy does. From Venice to Florence, from Naples to Bozen, lines of blues and reds, browns and yellows and greens and whites, all hang out of our windows like a fragrant rainbow of normality, and god only knows how much we need that, nowadays. 

Have you ever wondered how much you can learn about the people living in a place from what hangs outside their windows? How many they are, their gender, if there are children. Their favorite soccer team, the style of their décor and even their nationality. During the summer, when you start seeing bathing suits and beach towels, you realize who’s been on holiday and who still has to take a well deserved rest by  the sea. 

If you look carefully, you can imagine outfits, even people ’s daily routines and their jobs. 

Laundry hanging outside the window: a typical Italian sight. Photo: Joaquin Corbalan/Dreamstime

It’s not peeping, mind. It’s getting to know your neighborhood, learning to love a place, discovering the quirky ways of a country. You see, there is art in this, too. 

There is art in the way clothes lines join together windows and buildings, linking rooms of the same house and houses of the same street. They are the sturdy connection between families, ante litteram phone wires, along which mothers, sisters and wives talked to one another and created a vicinato. There is art in this myriad of shapes, textures and colors blessing old houses and decrepit buildings, beautiful residences and traditional homes, but also bleak council estates, and boroughs where you smell poverty as if it were made of glue. Because that laundry outside the  window speaks of hope, too: hope to grow up, make it to college and get out of a bad neighborhood; hope to travel the world and finally break free from the narrow boundaries of a city’s outskirts; hope life can get better.

In those clothes out in the air, you’ll find plenty of magic, too. 

When the wind blows, fabrics and colors move as if on a stage: it’s a theatre representation, a hide and seek performance of cotton and wool, silk and linen, whites and neons. Light and shadow play above your head, with sheets masking the sun and their shadows changing the way the ground under your feet looks. And don’t forget the sounds: that muted note of  cotton being whipped around, the same you used to make when, as a child, you’d use a towel as a toy. The squeaky noise of clothes lines being pulled, the clicking of cloth pegs being collected: what a commonly beautiful symphony of — remember the word — normality. 

Fabrics and colors are like music and words. Photo: Giuseppe Anello/Dreamstime

But, as it is often the case when I write or eat a slice of cake, I like to leave the best for last. And the best of that laundry hung outside to dry is its scent. Fresh laundry scent is the epitome of cleanliness, of home, of peace. It means everything is, as an old Radiohead song says, “in the right place,” that you’re ready for whatever is coming your way. Fresh laundry is also the scent of memories and it doesn’t matter where you come from or how old you are: it remains the scent of our parents and grandparents doing chores, of that first few seconds after getting into a clean bed you didn’t have to change yourself. 

And then, you know how the old saying goes: laundry that dries outside smells like the sun. 

By the way, did you know there is, in  fact, a scientific reason behind this and that it’s an Italian scientist who discovered it? Silvia Pugliese, who works for the university of Copenhagen and had the results of her study recently published on the Environmental Chemistry journal, found out that laundry that dries in open air produces a large quantity of aldehydes and ketones, organic molecules also produced by plants and flowers. Apparently, exposure to ozone and ultraviolet rays contributes to the transformation of common chemicals into these organic wonders that make everything they come in contact with smell nice. You see, the magic of science — what a beautiful oxymoron! — plays with us, too. 

Sometimes, the message is just as powerful when the laundry isn’t out to dry. Just like when you  are used to see an old lady’s flowery dresses and silk stockings hanging everyday just up there, in the corner of your village’s square and then, one  strange morning, one morning that felt a tad colder than all others, you notice they are  no longer there. And then, the church’s bell tolls and you know another soul moved on to a better place, even higher up in the sky than those clothes lines. 

If you grow up  in a country where the laundry dries inside, in a tumble dryer or in the privacy of a  back garden — where all the poetry of its presence is kept, as a well guarded secret, behind closed doors —  you may not understand why we Italians, sometimes, miss the colorful and apparent chaos of our laundry hanging out. But if you were born here, it’s a different  story. You miss it, when you live away. You miss it because it tells you a thousand tales about the place you live in and the life of those around you; about nature and love, about families and solitude, about life, death and what lies beyond. 

Even the scent of laundry hanging in the air has something magic. Photo: Laudibi/Dreamstime

Would you have ever imagined it was all there, cherished within those white sheets and crimson gowns, gently and unassumingly hanging just above your head?

Not many countries in the world make of their clean laundry a street decoration, but Italy does. From Venice to Florence, from Naples to Bozen, lines of blues and reds, browns and yellows and greens and whites, all hang out of our windows like a fragrant rainbow of normality, and god only knows how much we need that, nowadays. 

Have you ever wondered how much you can learn about the people living in a place from what hangs outside their windows? How many they are, their gender, if there are children. Their favorite soccer team, the style of their décor and even their nationality. During the summer, when you start seeing bathing suits and beach towels, you realize who’s been on holiday and who still has to take a well deserved rest by  the sea. 

If you look carefully, you can imagine outfits, even people ’s daily routines and their jobs. 

It’s not peeping, mind. It’s getting to know your neighborhood, learning to love a place, discovering the quirky ways of a country. You see, there is art in this, too. 

There is art in the way clothes lines join together windows and buildings, linking rooms of the same house and houses of the same street. They are the sturdy connection between families, ante litteram phone wires, along which mothers, sisters and wives talked to one another and created a vicinato. There is art in this myriad of shapes, textures and colors blessing old houses and decrepit buildings, beautiful residences and traditional homes, but also bleak council estates, and boroughs where you smell poverty as if it were made of glue. Because that laundry outside the  window speaks of hope, too: hope to grow up, make it to college and get out of a bad neighborhood; hope to travel the world and finally break free from the narrow boundaries of a city’s outskirts; hope life can get better.

In those clothes out in the air, you’ll find plenty of magic, too. 

When the wind blows, fabrics and colors move as if on a stage: it’s a theatre representation, a hide and seek performance of cotton and wool, silk and linen, whites and neons. Light and shadow play above your head, with sheets masking the sun and their shadows changing the way the ground under your feet looks. And don’t forget the sounds: that muted note of  cotton being whipped around, the same you used to make when, as a child, you’d use a towel as a toy. The squeaky noise of clothes lines being pulled, the clicking of cloth pegs being collected: what a commonly beautiful symphony of — remember the word — normality. 

But, as it is often the case when I write or eat a slice of cake, I like to leave the best for last. And the best of that laundry hung outside to dry is its scent. Fresh laundry scent is the epitome of cleanliness, of home, of peace. It means everything is, as an old Radiohead song says, “in the right place,” that you’re ready for whatever is coming your way. Fresh laundry is also the scent of memories and it doesn’t matter where you come from or how old you are: it remains the scent of our parents and grandparents doing chores, of that first few seconds after getting into a clean bed you didn’t have to change yourself. 

And then, you know how the old saying goes: laundry that dries outside smells like the sun. 

By the way, did you know there is, in  fact, a scientific reason behind this and that it’s an Italian scientist who discovered it? Silvia Pugliese, who works for the university of Copenhagen and had the results of her study recently published on the Environmental Chemistry journal, found out that laundry that dries in open air produces a large quantity of aldehydes and ketones, organic molecules also produced by plants and flowers. Apparently, exposure to ozone and ultraviolet rays contributes to the transformation of common chemicals into these organic wonders that make everything they come in contact with smell nice. You see, the magic of science — what a beautiful oxymoron! — plays with us, too. 

Sometimes, the message is just as powerful when the laundry isn’t out to dry. Just like when you  are used to see an old lady’s flowery dresses and silk stockings hanging everyday just up there, in the corner of your village’s square and then, one  strange morning, one morning that felt a tad colder than all others, you notice they are  no longer there. And then, the church’s bell tolls and you know another soul moved on to a better place, even higher up in the sky than those clothes lines. 

If you grow up  in a country where the laundry dries inside, in a tumble dryer or in the privacy of a  back garden — where all the poetry of its presence is kept, as a well guarded secret, behind closed doors —  you may not understand why we Italians, sometimes, miss the colorful and apparent chaos of our laundry hanging out. But if you were born here, it’s a different  story. You miss it, when you live away. You miss it because it tells you a thousand tales about the place you live in and the life of those around you; about nature and love, about families and solitude, about life, death and what lies beyond. 

Would you have ever imagined it was all there, cherished within those white sheets and crimson gowns, gently and unassumingly hanging just above your head?

Non molti paesi al mondo fanno della loro biancheria pulita una decorazione stradale, ma l’Italia sì. Da Venezia a Firenze, da Napoli a Bolzano, fili di panni blu e rossi, marroni e gialli e verdi e bianchi, pendono dalle nostre finestre come un arcobaleno profumato di normalità, e Dio solo sa quanto ne abbiamo bisogno, oggi. 

Vi siete mai chiesti quanto si possa imparare sulle persone che vivono in un luogo da ciò che pende fuori dalle loro finestre? Quanti sono, il loro sesso, se ci sono dei bambini. La loro squadra di calcio preferita, lo stile del loro arredamento e persino la loro nazionalità. Durante l’estate, quando si iniziano a vedere costumi da bagno e i teli da mare, ci si rende conto di chi è stato in vacanza e chi deve ancora concedersi un meritato riposo al mare. 

Se si guarda con attenzione, si possono immaginare gli abiti, anche la routine quotidiana delle persone e il loro lavoro. 

Non è sbirciare, badate. È conoscere il proprio quartiere, imparare ad amare un posto, scoprire i modi bizzarri di un paese. Vedete, anche in questo c’è dell’arte. 

C’è arte nel modo in cui i fili dei panni uniscono le finestre e gli edifici, collegando le stanze della stessa casa e le case della stessa strada. Sono il solido collegamento tra le famiglie, fili del telefono ante litteram, lungo i quali madri, sorelle e mogli si parlano e creano vicinato. C’è arte in questa miriade di forme, texture e colori che benedicono vecchie case e decrepiti edifici, belle residenze e case tradizionali, ma anche squallide tenute comunali, e quartieri dove si sente l’odore della povertà come se fosse di colla. Perché quel bucato fuori dalla finestra parla anche di speranza: sperare di crescere, di andare all’università e di uscire da un brutto quartiere; sperare di viaggiare per il mondo e finalmente di liberarsi dagli stretti confini della periferia di una città; sperare che la vita possa migliorare.

In quei vestiti che si vedono nell’aria, troverete anche un sacco di magia. 

Quando soffia il vento, i tessuti e i colori si muovono come su un palcoscenico: è una rappresentazione teatrale, un vedi e non vedi di cotone e lana, seta e lino, bianchi e neon. Luci e ombre giocano sopra la testa, con lenzuola che mascherano il sole e le loro ombre che cambiano l’aspetto del terreno sotto i piedi. E non dimenticate i suoni: quella nota muta del cotone che viene sbattuto, la stessa che facevate quando, da bambini, usavate un asciugamano per giocare. Il rumore stridulo dei fili con i vestiti che si tirano, lo schiocco delle mollette dei panni che si raccolgono: che bella sinfonia di normalità, ricordate la parola: “normalità“. 

Ma, come spesso accade quando scrivo o mangio una fetta di torta, mi piace lasciare il meglio per ultimo. E il meglio di quel bucato appeso fuori ad asciugare è il suo profumo. Il profumo del bucato fresco è la quintessenza della pulizia, della casa, della pace. Significa che tutto è, come dice una vecchia canzone dei Radiohead, “al posto giusto”, che sei pronto per qualsiasi cosa ti venga in mente. Il bucato fresco è anche il profumo dei ricordi e non importa da dove vieni o quanti anni hai: rimane il profumo dei nostri genitori e dei nonni che fanno le faccende di casa, di quei primi secondi dopo essere entrati in un letto pulito che non hai dovuto fare tu. 

E poi, come dice il vecchio detto: il bucato che asciuga fuori profuma di sole. 

A proposito, lo sapevate che c’è, in effetti, una ragione scientifica dietro a tutto questo e che è stato una scienziata italiana a scoprirlo? Silvia Pugliese, che lavora per l’Università di Copenhagen e ha visto pubblicare i risultati del suo studio sulla rivista Environmental Chemistry, ha scoperto che il bucato che si asciuga all’aria aperta produce una grande quantità di aldeidi e chetoni, molecole organiche prodotte anche da piante e fiori. A quanto pare, l’esposizione all’ozono e ai raggi ultravioletti contribuisce alla trasformazione di comuni sostanze chimiche in queste meraviglie organiche che rendono piacevole tutto ciò con cui entrano in contatto. Vedete, la magia della scienza – che bell’ossimoro! – gioca a nostro vantaggio. 

A volte, il messaggio è altrettanto potente quando il bucato non è fuori ad asciugare. Proprio come quando si è abituati a vedere gli abiti a fiori e le calze di seta di una vecchia signora appesi ogni giorno proprio lassù, in un angolo della piazza del proprio paese e poi, una mattina strana, una mattina che sembrava un po’ più fredda di tutte le altre, ci si accorge che non ci sono più. E poi, la campana della chiesa suona e sai che un’altra anima si è spostata in un posto migliore, ancora più in alto nel cielo di quei fili con i vestiti appesi. 

Se si cresce in un paese dove il bucato si asciuga all’interno, nell’asciugatrice o nell’intimità di un giardino sul retro – dove tutta la poesia della sua presenza è protetta, come un segreto ben custodito, dietro porte chiuse – forse non si capisce perché a noi italiani, a volte, manchi il colorato e apparente caos del nostro bucato steso. Ma se siete nati qui, è un’altra storia. Vi manca, quando vivete lontano. Manca perché racconta mille storie sul posto in cui vivi e sulla vita di chi ti sta intorno; sulla natura e l’amore, sulla famiglia e la solitudine, sulla vita, la morte e ciò che sta oltre. 

Avreste mai immaginato che fosse tutto lì, custodito tra quelle lenzuola bianche e quegli abiti cremisi, dolcemente e modestamente appesi sopra la testa?

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