Francis Steegmuller: The Foreigner

The other day, I dropped off my laundry on my way to work as I do sometimes (because some things you really should LEAVE TO THE PROFESSIONALS). This was a different laundrette, one that stays open a half hour later, because sometimes I've been unfortunate enough to miss the closing due to a late night at the office, which can be catastrophic, because on the gas tank of clean laundry, I'm almost always WAY below the flashing EMPTY light by the time I can be bothered to haul it in.
So, I pick it up, haul it home, no problem, then start unloading it, and discover that my socks are missing. My socks! Missing! Every last one of them! I continue to put away everything else, immediately resigned to my own imminent sockless fate, trying to imagine a life without socks, and when I go to put a pillowcase in the closet, I notice that it's much lumpier than it typically is. Behold. The new place tucks socks away in pillowcases, evidently.
The experience reminded me of today's story, for reasons that will become obvious soon enough. The lesson: when in a foreign laundrette, do as the foreign launders do.