The Downstairs Neighbors

Some of you may have heard a rumor that my apartment during my first 3 months in Paris was a little petite, as the French say. I like to think of myself as low-maintenance, but life inside a 270 square foot apartment (supposedly -- look below) can be a trying experience.

I'm pleased to report that unlike the first time around, I selected my apartment for the second 3 month stint and it is comparatively spacious (upper right). Yes, it appears to be decorated with leftover sets from a production of South Pacific, but what you see is just the living room, not the kitchen or the bedroom, whereas with the other apartment, you are looking at just about everything but the bathroom.

I now live on what we would call the 5th floor (here, it's considered the 4th) of a 7 story apartment building. There are 2 apartments on each floor. On the ground level are a pharmacy and a mortuary. I'm sure there could be a good joke about that, but I will leave it alone.

A few nights ago, there was a knock at my door. In 7 years of downtown Chicago high-rise living, I had never had someone come to my door whom I was not expecting and I certainly wasn't expecting anyone here. It turned out to be my downstairs neighbor. After we each said "Bonsoir" she began speaking a little too rapidly for me to understand. I heard the words "sign," "insurance," and "water" in French, before I asked her, "Parlez-vous anglais?" Now, the story gets very mundane, as she and her husband needed my apartment's owner to sign something because of some water damage done to their apartment a few months ago, but I will say it turned out to be longer than any conversation I've had with any of my neighbors in my Chicago building in at least 2 years.