This places the work quite close to the Bechers, and in his essay for the book, writer D. Foy makes this connection between Sturluson's laundromats and the Becher's water towers. But he also goes into some detail about the emotions behind laundromats. Foy, who says he has "rich experience" with laundromats, says: "Whatever we may say about laundromats, whatever goodness they may give, every single one I've ever known is an oasis of despair." That's some tough love, to say the least, but Foy goes on to explain that the laundromat holds a "curiously elevated status in the collective European consciousness." Who knew? In describing Sturluson's inital experiences of American laundromats, Foy says that "it was as if everything he'd gathered about America over the years—the loneliness and pathos of the Jim Jarmusch films he'd seen growing up in Reykjavík, the mysterious lack that pervades the prose of Paul Auster, the shade of Weltschmerz in the songs of Tom Waits, and the city's ambivalent sense of gritty despair and taunting possibility that have drawn so many millions to it—all these contracted in a brilliant epiphany."