They were red. Like Swiss flag red. With little cows on them. They were men's.
And they were definitely not mine. Or the hubby's.
But they were in my laundry. Along with a pair of Adidas socks.
Ask anyone living in an older flat in Switzerland and they will tell you that the biggest beef you will likely have with the neighbors is over the shared washing room. In most flats, you have a specific washing day. That's "a" as in singular so, you know, clear your schedule. Some people even have to jet home early from work because it is their day. And, of course because it is Switzerland, there are rules. Just ask the lady who was recently locked into her apartment building's washing room by her neighbor for doing her laundry after 10pm.
I thought we were lucky - our flats are fairly laid back so it's a first come, first serve. Plus, jackpot, most of the neighbors above us are single dudes in their 20s who still take all their washing home to mommy.
Never mind the fact that you literally have to climb six-century-old tower to the top (it is exactly 82 steps, by the way). Never mind that the light regularly goes out in the stairwell, leaving you in the middle of a "so this is how a lot of people broke their necks in the Middle Ages" scenario. Never mind the fact that I suspect that at least two of the neighbors are Rugby players and tend to leave the washer smelling like a wet poodle after using it.
We had it good.
Until I opened the washing machine and found them - saucily peaking out from among my bedsheets in all their crimson glory.
The neighbor's man panties.
Naturally, I didn't want their owner to go without them. He obviously needed them so badly that he took the effort to stop the machine by tricking it into thinking that the cycles were complete, open the hatch, toss them in, and start the whole washing business over again. So I hung them on the laundry sink, with a note. They eventually found a home. Hopefully the right one.
I kept the socks. They're super comfy.