T A B L E_T A L K How do you save money when you travel? Share your tips for being a thrifty tourist in the Wanderlust area of Table Talk ___________________ Learn more about Richard Branson at BarnesandNoble.com ___________________   R E C E N T L Y The Virgin king By Don George An interview with Virgin Group founder Richard Branson, one of the most remarkable -- and successful -- mavericks in the history of business (12/10/98) Miming Mexico By Diane Weipert A street artist unmasks the hard realities of daily life in Guanajuato (12/09/98) The cruise cocoon By Zachary Karabell A guest lecturer on a luxury Aegean voyage asks: Is this any way to see the world? (12/08/98) Desperately seeking e-mail By Lisa Dreier Finding Internet access in India is feasible, but not for the fainthearted (12/06/98) This week in travel Wanderlust's select guide to the top travel-related news stories from around the globe (12/04/98)   Browse the Wanderlust Feature archives     Wanderlust's Official Travel Book Partner		DIRTY LAUNDRY | PAGE 1, 2, 3 - - - - - - - - - - We climbed two flights up a narrow stairway. It was dark after the bright gray outdoors. We entered a deserted lobby with dirty green carpeting, a sagging sofa and a counter that looked as though it had once been a bar. At least it had windows. That stairwell made me claustrophobic. A man stood up behind the counter, as though he'd been crouched there, waiting. He did not seem to know Jean-Pierre. I told him in French that I'd like a room, and asked the price. Before he could answer, Jean-Pierre jumped in, speaking to him in the local language. The man answered him briefly, almost curtly. "Please, the cost is 4,000 CFA [francs]," he told me. The price, roughly $13, was exactly what the guidebook said. Expensive for a third world country, but I was prepared to splurge my first night. He reached under the bar and got a key and a form to fill out. I was ready to drop. "Can I put my things in my room?" I asked. "I'll be back in a minute." "Please," the man at the desk said. Jean-Pierre accompanied me down a short, unlit hallway. "See," he said proudly. "I get you a good price." I said nothing. I dumped my things, locked the room and headed back to the desk. I had two things on my mind: shower and laundry. I was coming direct from Morocco, and all my clothes were stuffed in my backpack in fetid lumps. I paid the man at the desk, whose name was Adjin, thanked Jean-Pierre and turned toward my room. "Excuse," said Jean-Pierre, "you have forgotten my commission." "Jean-Pierre," I said, "you told me the hotel paid the commission." "No! You paid the special, low price. Then you pay me commission. I got you a good price." I turned to Adjin. "Did you give me a special price?" I asked him. Adjin frowned, and Jean-Pierre burst into a string of words. Adjin ignored him. "You paid the regular price," he told me. "You see," I said to Jean-Pierre, "I don't owe you anything." "But I have helped you to get here!" I handed him 300 CFA. "Goodbye," I said. "Uh!" He made a high-pitched sound of disbelief. "Jean-Pierre, I'm tired. You said you didn't want anything from me. That is enough." I refused to feel guilty about the pained, vexed look in his eyes. I didn't owe him anything. I went to my room and shut the door and locked it. It was a basic room: a bed with a mosquito net hanging above it, suspended from the ceiling by a rope and a wooden ring; a wooden ceiling fan; a chair. But the bathroom had a shower with running water, albeit cold. That was more than I'd had in a month. I showered, lay down on my bed and slept. When I came out, in the late afternoon, I asked Adjin if he knew of a place where I could do my laundry. I'd spent the last month digging around in the dirt, volunteering in a public park in an ugly Moroccan city called Kenitra, and my light-colored cotton clothes were covered with ground-in dust. I'd scrubbed and scraped at them, but it had done nothing to lighten the dingy gray. I figured that in Abidjan, which the guidebook called the "gleaming high-rise capital" of the Ivory Coast, I'd treat myself to a washing machine. Adjin told me there was a woman connected with the hotel who would take my laundry and do it for me. "How much will it cost?" I asked him. "Let me see the items." I brought out my laundry bag. "It's not so much," I said. "A skirt, a shirt, a pair of pants ..." I pulled the pieces out one by one. "And a bunch of little stuff." I waved my hand toward the underwear and socks at the bottom of the bag. Adjin looked the items over, then said, "It will cost you 500 CFA." "Great," I said. "Shall I leave them with you?" "Yes, she will come for them. You will have them later this evening." "OK, great, because I may move to a different hotel tomorrow." I decided to go downtown and look for a bank. As I walked across the bridge I looked down and saw a man standing on the stony riverbank, peeing into the river. I decided to leave for Ghana as soon as possible. I walked among the rectangular high-rises, none of which gleamed. The air was heavy and damp with heat. Raw sewage ran down the sides of the streets. Next to it, women sat stirring large metal pots of pale mush over charcoal burners, or roasting skewers of gristly meat. They grabbed at my arm as I went by, or called out to me in French, "Viens, viens." Come. I didn't want to come. I didn't want to touch their filthy food, let alone eat it. I wanted to go home. But that was a place and a person to which I was never going back. N E X T+P A G E | "Oh! 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