Situated Sunday

I am in the kitchen of my new home in a post-soviet apartment, which I imagine is not much different than living in a soviet apartment. Before I moved here, I bought a percolator from Spain in a department store in Chisinau, some fancy Lavazza coffee, and now enjoy each morning sipping espresso with one teaspoon of sugar and a little un-pasteurized milk. This late Sunday morning I woke my sister up with a phone beep at what was close to her 5 A.M. She called me back and I spoke to groggy her about family, packages I’m waiting on, and e-mail. It was the perfect way to start this lazy Sunday I’m having.

After the call, finishing my first of two cups, I remained in the kitchen reading my book and drinking more coffee. I had my ipod sitting next to me as I read, but turned it down upon hearing the real music of the morning. The neighbors. Earlier this morning I woke up to the repetitive banging of what I assume was the assembling of something. Falling back asleep, I was re-woken by a cell phone vibrating on the floor above me, my ceiling.

Thanks to my suburban upbringing, I’ve never really lived in an apartment building before. Sure I have lived in the dorms, but having college-aged neighbors is not at all similar to living next to families, it’s much different, and actually worse. I’ve lived in duplexes before; staying awake to the sound of my neighbor snoring, laughing at his booming telephone conversations, and being creeped out when he would knock on the wall to talk to me through the wall. Last year, Kellan and I lived under a motley assortment of neighbors, consisting of drug dealers, alcoholics, special needs adults, and a woman who howled, sung, cackled, and screamed throughout the entire night. But all my past neighbor experiences were, so far, not nearly as interesting as I’m finding my current neighbors to be.

So, I am listening to music, reading about a character in post-soviet Russia, when I hear yelling from upstairs. I turn my music off but continue reading. The yelling gets louder and louder and there is a baby crying. I put my book down and listen, straining to hear the argument. I can’t make out too much from in the kitchen, so I walk into my room, Tamara’s room, and the bathroom. It seems like upstairs they are traveling the apartment as well, as the stomping is matching the screaming. I hear a woman yelling “ti skatina!” (you boar!) over and over again. I can’t make out what he’s saying, but I can tell by her shrieking he is provoking her. The baby continues to cry.

I am eavesdropping; I am entertained beyond belief. I’ve gotten really into Russian soap operas lately, and now am totally sucked into the real-life drama above me. I am discovering listening to neighbors argue is better than hearing them have sex, it’s less gross, more amusing. Apartment living is the way into people’s personal, secret lives and the voyeur in me is enjoying witnessing people in their natural states at home, without my immediate involvement or presence. And the best part is, living here peacefully with Tamara, I know that I won’t even have any material to return back for them, making second floor living all the more exciting for me.