The flat I live in looks fairly typical of the buildings you see around Madrid, of the older variety, built somewhere between the late 19th C and early 20th C, six or seven storeys, access from the street, an ancient elevator of the kind you see in old Hollywood movies, and (most excitingly for me) little balconies, that overlook the street.
They're also constructed around a central courtyard, and each flat has its own washing line strung across the windows to allow the residents to dry their clothes.
It probably shouldn't be too much of a surprise then when you see your neighbour's pants hanging outside your window in the morning because they've become loose and fallen from the floor above. Being the tactful (read: timid) Englishman that I am, I wasn't sure how to return them without causing embarrassment for both parties. So I did what any true Englishman would do in such a situation: I pretended not to see them, and waited for the wind to blow them down to the ground below.
The porter (yes, we have a porter in our building) tells us she has plastic bags full of unclaimed bragas that have fallen down over the years. I imagine her stood wearily amidst a neverending rain of underwear...