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Business Travel Humour - Lost Laundry
By Dave Archer of International Business Trainers

We’ve all heard the saying “if you want something done right, you have to do it yourself”. In some cases, it appears that this even applies to doing your own laundry while traveling.

While on a business trip to Australia some years ago, I had one of the most disconcerting experiences a business traveler can be faced with. I discovered – to my horror – that I had received the wrong shirts, socks and (shudder) underwear from the hotel laundry service in Sydney.

Of course, I had moved on to Melbourne to visit an old friend for the weekend by the time I made the discovery. Although I had noticed an unfamiliar sock near my suitcase as I scooped together my belongings in preparation for an early flight the next day, I had assumed that it was one of Mark’s (both single at the time, his housekeeping standards resembled my own). The next day, though, preparing to dress after a shower, the grisly truth began to emerge. As I began to open my bag of fresh laundry from the hotel, I started to wonder what was going on. A sinking feeling came over me as I finished ripping open the paper bag I thought contained my familiar dress shirts, jocks and socks. I hadn’t checked to make sure they were the right ones at the hotel – it wasn’t usually necessary. “But surely they couldn’t have been mixed up”, I thought. “The suits and trousers are mine, after all!” But alas, the hotel laundry, apparently unconcerned about whose underwear was whose, had indeed goofed.

I reluctantly peered at the unfamiliar design of the boxers, holding them with the paper wrapping between my fingertips and the fabric (even though they were freshly laundered). I wondered who would own such pathetic, droopy, items. “How would those hideous, stretched-out socks ever stay up?” And the underwear didn’t bear thinking about, although I didn’t suppose the owner was much more thrilled than I was about the mixup.

Frantically, I dropped the alien garments and searched every inch of all of my luggage, even inside the lid of my briefcase, to take an inventory of how many of my own clothes I might still have with me, and luckily found a few familiar things. They hadn’t previously been my favorites, but suddenly they were very appealing. And they would keep me going until the stores opened, and of course as soon as I made contact with the recipient of my laundry we would arrange an exchange and all have a good laugh.


Mark was very helpful, hastily offering to lend me whatever I needed; unfortunately he is 5'8" and I am 6'4" so that settled the shirt and sock question. As for the underwear, well, there are limits to friendship. (I could see his relief when I refused his generous offer.)

The next leg of my trip took me to Tasmania. I had scheduled an early morning flight, and now planned to make a quick stop at a local men’s clothing store to pick up some replacement items before my meeting. However, upon landing I learned there had been a change of plan: the mining engineers with whom I was to do business met my plane and announced we would drive directly to the mine site, where we were scheduled to confer with the President and then conduct tests over the next few days. Now, these guys were Australians. Tough, macho, outback-mining-type Australians. Would Crocodile Dundee say “Hey, guys, I was hoping to do a little clothes shopping”? I don’t think so.

So now I was watching my laundry supply closely, calculating the most expedient use of resources. (For those taking notes: (1) yes, shampoo is a reasonably good detergent; (2) some items will dry overnight, especially if they have been rolled in a bath towel; and (3) underwear that didn’t quite dry on the shower rail will dry on you, but in the process will wrinkle your trousers beyond belief). And there were tradeoffs to consider, including deciding which is preferable for the wrap up dinner with the CEO: a clean but wrinkled shirt, or a second-day shirt with a bit of a press remaining?

Meanwhile, it was infuriating to continue to lug around the alien laundry. I had finally had a chance to call the hotel in Sydney to inform them of the mistake. “Why, Mr. Aacha!” (it took me a minute to recognize the Australian pronunciation of my last name, although I was accustomed to “Dive”). He continued in a reproachful tone, “the other gentleman is quite concerned about his knickers. Can you airbag them over straight away?”

Well, I tried. I really tried. I’m Canadian; we’re known around the world as being nice folks. Also, I’m in sales: who knows when somebody might be a customer? And I knew too well how the other guy must have felt. So I parceled up the foreign undies and gave them, with what I thought were very clear directions (and a nice tip) to the desk clerk at the hotel. However he later reported that when he called Australia Post he learned that it was too late for a pickup that day, and delivery time was going to be at least three days. I moaned: “No, not the post office! I specifically asked you to courier it” (I should’ve said “airbag” – another cultural difference: use the local terminology!), trying not to take my growing frustration out on a friendly but new-to-the-job Tasmanian desk clerk. “Okay, give them back to me, I’ll send them when I get to the Melbourne airport”.

By now the Sydney hotel had my cell phone number, and was leaving at least two messages a day: “Mr. Aacha, we still haven’t received the...um...package. Can you please advise the status?” I finally called the hotel back, and they informed me that the guest has moved on to Brisbane, via Ansett Airlines. “Perfect!” I said, “I’ll be there tomorrow”. I was still trying to do the right thing, especially since the hotel still had my gear, and I wasn’t staying in one place long enough for them to send it to me. With so much time and effort invested so far, I was determined to carry this through to its conclusion.

I arrived in Brisbane the next day, and by now was really anxious to get this ridiculous situation resolved. When I landed I went immediately to the Ansett Airlines customer service desk, held out the now tattered and taped paper bag, and asked where I could leave a package for someone to pick up. “I’m sorry, you can’t”, came the loud and officious reply. “Can’t what?” “Leave a package”. “Why not?” I demanded to know, my frustration level peaking instantly. “Security reasons … what’s in it, anyway?” I blurted out “Someone’s bloody socks and underwear!” as the entire desk staff and all passengers within earshot stopped talking and reacted with expressions ranging from shock to pity to furtive amusement. I fled down the concourse, feeling ridiculously embarrassed that every person in the Brisbane domestic terminal now knew what I clutched under my arm. My paranoia wasn’t helped by the laughter behind me.

Then I thought, “That’s it. I’ve had enough. This stuff is out of here” as I determinedly made my way to the terminal exit. Just then my mobile phone rang. It was the hotel in Sydney. “Mr Aacha. Have you arrived in Brisbane yet?” “Yes I have. And you know what else? Right now I’m looking at some nice thick tropical bushes outside the terminal and I’m going to throw this guy’s stuff in them because I’ve got a flight to catch in fifteen minutes. I’ve been dragging this guy’s gear through four states in the last week, and I’ve had enough!” I switched my phone into my left hand, and in anticipation moved the paper bag of laundry into my throwing hand, ready to let go a long bomb into the palms. “But is there a taxi nearby? You could send it to the hotel our guest is now staying” she insisted. I paused as a Black & White cab approached. Empty, looking for his next fare. “Hang on. Hey, you want to take a package to a hotel?” I yelled at the slowing driver. “Which hotel, mate?” he asked. “Which hotel?” I asked the patient woman on the phone in Sydney. “He’s staying at the Holiday Inn Downtown” she replied. “Holiday Inn Downtown. You know where it is?” “Yeah, mate. Sixteen bucks”. “It’s sixteen bucks” I repeated. “That’ll be fine”, replied a relieved hotel representative.

I passed the package through the formerly bored driver’s window, as he looked forward to an easy, maybe even exotic fare. “What is it, anyway, mate?” he asked eagerly. “Socks and underwear. Good luck”. His expression was crestfallen as he took the package with a minimum of contact between his index finger and thumb (I knew the feeling). But I was free at last, and rushed off to catch my plane.

I hope the other guy appreciated finally receiving his unmentionables, and was somehow aware of the tribulations I had endured on his behalf. I certainly did treasure my belongings when we were finally reunited. And who knows? Maybe someday we’ll find ourselves seatmates on a long flight, and we’ll have a drink and a chat – and finally have that good laugh.

Copyright International Business Trainers, a Division of ATM Export Management Inc., a company dedicated to helping its clients to sell internationally.  All rights reserved.  Dave Archer, President & Founder can be reached at dave@ibtrainers.com or by phone at +1 705 735 3397.