Up again this morning at 5:45 in order to be on the trail by 7. Not everyone is that eager to get going, so we creep around with the lights off. Most of us handwash our clothing in the sink, then hang clothing off of whatever we can find for the night.

Since I wear two pairs of socks – a thin, wicking liner plus thicker wool – I’ve developed a habit of washing the liners daily, the wool socks every other day. Last night happened to be a no-wool-wash day, so I hung my (somewhat stinky) socks from the bed frame to let out some funk during the night.

When we gather our belongings in the pre-dawn dark, it’s important to be vigilant in collecting all your things, as creativity in finding hanging space changes with each albergue. This morning, I packed my bag, but was unable to find my wool socks. I was quite sure I’d left them hanging from the bed frame, but they weren’t there. Perhaps I’d moved them away from prying eyes and sensitive noses? I looked all around and under the bed, emptied and repacked my backpack, all without finding the grey Smartwools.

I was reminding myself all along to remain calm and trust that my prayers to locate them would be answered in the affirmative. However, some panic was building, as I only brought two pair of each sock type, and the wools don’t dry fully in one night. I asked a friend to help look, then gave up for abbot and went for breakfast. Maybe food would spur my memory.

I noticed my 70-year-old Polish bunk mate in the kitchen frying up his breakfast, so went to ask if he had seen my socks, and if I could look around his belongings. I knew from the night before that his English was broken, and Spanish non-existent, so used sign language to signal my sock hunt, pulling up my pant leg as I pointed.

He followed suit.

His socks were strangely akin in color and weave to mine.

He chuckled and said something about it being dark and surprised that his socks weren’t black this morning.

(Side note: If you’re surprised that your socks suddenly changed color, something is amiss)

He later came upstairs (why not immediately??? No clue) and peeled my socks off of his feet and gave them back to me.

The Polishman Socks, as they are now affectionately known, were then washed in the sink with as hot of water and as much scrubbing as I could muster. And later washed again. And run through the electric dryer (kinda expensive, but you gotta do what you gotta do). And they will not be worn upon my bare feet (without liners) until machine washed and hot dried again.

Thanks for the chuckle, Mr Polishman. Enjoy your Camino.

P.S. My roommate later told me she found her undergarments in Mr Polishman’s backpack. Please, sir, use the light.