Nothing, however, embodies my shopping follies better than the above receipt, the scontrino. It comes from the place in Rome where I took my laundry in the spring of 2006. At the top -- my chosen Italian name: Gianna. Below, the list of my clothing to be washed. Pantalone. Pants, two pairs. Maglia. In this case, five cotton shirts. And biancheria. This is actually one of my favorite Italian words, for intimate items. In sum, I took in a couple pair of pants, some t-shirts, socks and underwear. I asked the woman to wash and iron them. Well - to be honest, I wasn't entirely sure they would be ironed, but when the woman asked “stirata, signora?” and gestured appropriately, I assumed my clothes would be ironed. Why would I want my underwear ironed? The last time I took my clothes to this lavanderia and ignored the gestured query, when I got the clothes back, they were washed, but a wrinkled mess. This time, I went for the ironing.

The sum due for this work: 31.4 euro. About 40 dollars. Yep. 40 bucks to wash my pants, t-shirts and underwear. And, as if this wasn't bad enough -- at the bottom of the receipt, the worst possible insult. Turista. Did this mean that I had dummy emblazoned on my forehead in neon?

It was too late at that point to turn back. They had my clothing. Admittedly, I puzzled why I didn't just live a few more days with i miei vestititi sporchi -- my dirty clothes.

I showed the scontrino to one of my Italian friends and asked if I was being ripped off. She assured me it was a reasonable price for that particular kind of establishment -- elaborating that at least my clothes would be meticulously hand-washed and ironed. There are apparently pay-by-weight laundry shops in Rome where, like here, they will be tossed in a washer, dried and stuffed back into the bag.

When it was all said and done, I admit once my clothes were back, they have never been cleaner, nor softer. From jeans to t-shirts to socks, my clothes felt like they were made of silk.