I can tell when the sub tenant who is in the apartment below me has found a new boyfriend and/or girlfriend because he always turns up the opera and drinks too much and shouts excitedly. Then angry complaints and stomping and pleading. Then... well, never mind.
He had told the owner, who is away in Los Angeles for a year, that he was a quiet divorced man, sadly getting over the break up of his marriage. I don't think so.
His latest rapturous overtures began in earnest last night, with decibel levels that certainly he had no intention of keeping private. Or perhaps no ability to. We live on an otherwise peaceful courtyard, and his concert-level antics keep all the neighbors awake. Like it or not, this is the old-guard seventh arrondissement, plain vanilla Paris, where the custom is to keep personal matters quiet, behind closed doors. The neighbors are mostly families or retirees, all polite and courteous. We shut our shutters at night.
Not so with row-row-Romeo below. That ain't happening. And tonight it is at fever pitch, windows open, music blaring. Their shake-it-a-baby shouts and cries at 10 pm make my ears turn crimson. The cross-courtyard neighbors are slamming their windows and shutters in protest.
I'm sorry that I won't be here for La Fete des Voisins next week, a pot luck supper when the building residents get together to get to know each other.. If loverboy is smart (which I doubt), he'll be busy that night, too.
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