Before I came to Spain, I had never lived in a city, in an apartment before. Sure, my senior year of college I lived on the third floor of a giant house that had been made into apartments, but it just felt like a house. And in Argentina, and Spain the first time, I stayed in apartments with other people in big buildings with elevators and doormen and views of Buenos Aires or Salamanca. But living here now, in the same apartment for just about three years, I've really begun to see what life is like when lived in close quarters.
It's strange to live with these people, but not really know them -- I suppose it's just a new relationship for me. Growing up in a house with a big yard in a tiny town, I knew most of the neighbors, at least by sight if not by name. But I really knew nothing about them. They didn't know where I went to school, how old I was, what my family ate for dinner. Everyone was separate. Here in the city, though, because everyone is all stacked on top of one another, you can't help but find out things about the people living around you. Like the couple downstairs who fight on Saturday mornings and slam doors and yell, and who once burned a piece of toast so badly that my whole apartment filled up with smoke and I thought the building was on fire. And the guy from choir who lives on the third floor but works in Bilbao and wouldn't share his internet password with me. And the people who just moved in on the second floor who have a little girl, who I think is the only kid in the building. Most prominent is the woman whose apartment shares the fifth floor with mine, up under the eaves, and her awful, awful boyfriend. But the escapades with them are another story for another entry. (Yes, there is that much to tell.)
At first I was really embarrassed about everything I did in my apartment, embarrassed about making noise and worried about bothering people with my singing or my music or the TV. I tiptoed to my dresser early in the mornings so as not to wake anyone up -- you can hear everything between my bedroom and my neighbor's, hence all the problems -- and when I had guests I begged them to tread softly and keep their voices down. But now I've gotten more used to it. I can't limit my life because of other people, especially when they most certainly are not thinking of how much noise they're making and how it affects me.
But everything is just so close! I see people on the stairs and we say hello, no more, and in my head I'm screaming I know you fight and throw things on Saturday mornings! I know you eat dinner at midnight! I can hear when you pull the blinds of your bedroom up first thing in the morning! It's so strange. To know some of the most intimate things about people and not even know their names. When I'm out walking around the city, I still find myself looking up at the apartment buildings and picturing it like a Richard Scarey drawing, with one wall of the building taken off and a view into everyone's separate, but very proximate lives. In this apartment they're having a snack in the kitchen; in the one next door they're watching TV; downstairs someone is in the shower; in the attic a little old man is talking to his cat. (Oh man I wish I had a cat.) If the walls weren't there they could reach out and touch each other; yet everyone is going about their own business like they're miles away from everyone else.
I'm not sure if this kind of living is for me, in the long run. I love living in the city for now: my friends are nearby, there are bars to go to and concerts to see and if I run out of eggs there's a little store directly across the street. It actually takes me longer to walk down the stairs from my apartment than it does to get from my front door to the store. There's shopping two blocks away and cafes with terraces and my favorite Turkish bartender who gives me free drinks just downtown. But I think it's all too close. Too weird. Unnatural. Give me a front door that opens onto grass, and space for a garden, and room for dogs to run. Somewhere I don't have to listen to my awful neighbor yelling at 7am about what color sweater he should wear. No one cares, champ. No one at all.
It's strange to live with these people, but not really know them -- I suppose it's just a new relationship for me. Growing up in a house with a big yard in a tiny town, I knew most of the neighbors, at least by sight if not by name. But I really knew nothing about them. They didn't know where I went to school, how old I was, what my family ate for dinner. Everyone was separate. Here in the city, though, because everyone is all stacked on top of one another, you can't help but find out things about the people living around you. Like the couple downstairs who fight on Saturday mornings and slam doors and yell, and who once burned a piece of toast so badly that my whole apartment filled up with smoke and I thought the building was on fire. And the guy from choir who lives on the third floor but works in Bilbao and wouldn't share his internet password with me. And the people who just moved in on the second floor who have a little girl, who I think is the only kid in the building. Most prominent is the woman whose apartment shares the fifth floor with mine, up under the eaves, and her awful, awful boyfriend. But the escapades with them are another story for another entry. (Yes, there is that much to tell.)
At first I was really embarrassed about everything I did in my apartment, embarrassed about making noise and worried about bothering people with my singing or my music or the TV. I tiptoed to my dresser early in the mornings so as not to wake anyone up -- you can hear everything between my bedroom and my neighbor's, hence all the problems -- and when I had guests I begged them to tread softly and keep their voices down. But now I've gotten more used to it. I can't limit my life because of other people, especially when they most certainly are not thinking of how much noise they're making and how it affects me.
But everything is just so close! I see people on the stairs and we say hello, no more, and in my head I'm screaming I know you fight and throw things on Saturday mornings! I know you eat dinner at midnight! I can hear when you pull the blinds of your bedroom up first thing in the morning! It's so strange. To know some of the most intimate things about people and not even know their names. When I'm out walking around the city, I still find myself looking up at the apartment buildings and picturing it like a Richard Scarey drawing, with one wall of the building taken off and a view into everyone's separate, but very proximate lives. In this apartment they're having a snack in the kitchen; in the one next door they're watching TV; downstairs someone is in the shower; in the attic a little old man is talking to his cat. (Oh man I wish I had a cat.) If the walls weren't there they could reach out and touch each other; yet everyone is going about their own business like they're miles away from everyone else.
I'm not sure if this kind of living is for me, in the long run. I love living in the city for now: my friends are nearby, there are bars to go to and concerts to see and if I run out of eggs there's a little store directly across the street. It actually takes me longer to walk down the stairs from my apartment than it does to get from my front door to the store. There's shopping two blocks away and cafes with terraces and my favorite Turkish bartender who gives me free drinks just downtown. But I think it's all too close. Too weird. Unnatural. Give me a front door that opens onto grass, and space for a garden, and room for dogs to run. Somewhere I don't have to listen to my awful neighbor yelling at 7am about what color sweater he should wear. No one cares, champ. No one at all.
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