I’m waiting in silence. Beside me, clothes are spinning, in a hypnotic rhythm. I’m trying to patiently read my book in a laundromat, the kind you see in clichéd Netflix series. The Airbnb where I’m staying for the first few weeks, nestled in a modest and quiet suburb of Toronto, didn’t come with a washing machine. So there you have it — my washing shall be carried out in Spic & Span coin laundry. Amazing. The sign on the wall draws my attention: it must have been hanging there since the 80s. It’s giving me a vibe I can’t put my finger on. Settling in a metropolitan city is a slow, yet empowering enterprise. My eyes linger on the window. Outside, a snow storm is picking up and it'll be dark soon. No one’s around to encourage me to walk home through the snow with two bags of wet laundry. Now that I'm here, I only have myself to hold upon.