Dry Cleaning in Wet Japan

by Anna Kunnecke 

I don't understand dry cleaning in this country.  Within two blocks of my apartment there are no fewer than five different dry cleaners, and I don't like any of them.

To be fair, the clothes come out pristine, perfectly encased in plastic, neatly tagged, belts and buttons attached, and pressed into submission.  It's just that they aren't really clean. 

That's right, to have dirt or sweat or oil removed will cost extra.  When I point out stains, whether wine or grease or toddler-related, they mournfully mark the spot with delicately padded clothespins and then merrily tack a few hundred yen onto my bill.  There is a more fundamental issue, though: odor.  Look, Tokyo is hot and humid, and even we dainty roses get a little ripe after a 12-hour day.  To address this embarrassing matter, I have to ask for a special treatment called 'ase-nuki,' which means sweat-removal.  I like imagining how they do this; is there a vacuum involved?  Whatever it is, it roughly doubles the price.  So if it's these extra processes that take out visible marks and odor, what's involved in the basic dry cleaning?  My theory is that they just iron the dirty clothes and call it a day. 

But make no mistake.  The ironing is perfect.

Recently they added a new service: they'll clean your clothes and then store them over the summer, FOR FREE.  I practically jumped up and down; nothing is as irksome as trying to keep our heavy winter clothes and bedding clean, dry, and out of the way during Tokyo's sodden rainy season and humid, bug-infested summer.  Even shoes kept in the airtight cupboard crammed full of desiccant tend to develop mildew or worse. 

So I took the flyer, elated. 

But there were a few restrictions: no leather, wool, silk, fleece, or fur.  No down, comforters, or quilts.  So that leaves what--pillowcases?  Jeans?  Plus, you send your stuff away now, in early summer, and they'll call you sometime in the fall when it's time to come pick it up.  Sometime, as in, any time between August and October.  Once they call you, you have five days to go pick it up. 

I can't imagine a life where I could guarantee that we wouldn't be away for any five-day period over THREE MONTHS.  Or what kind of heavy winter clothes we'd want to store that didn't involve some sort of forbidden material.  But then again, I never would have imagined that I'd actually pay to have someone take my clothes away and return them still smelling the way they did when I took them off my body. 

Here's my new approach: maybe I'll wash everything myself first.  I'll pretend I'm just sending it out for ironing.  If I can catch the rainy day discount, it might even be worth it.