Before we moved to San Francisco -- and from a house back to an apartment, I figured that the everyday noises of the neighbors and the neighborhood would drive me insane.
Why?
Well, I like to say I'm sensitive to noise. But, it seems more likely that I'm just a lunatic with an overpowering sense of "justice."
You see, the noise itself doesn't bother me as much as the concept that the people making the noise -- usually playing music too loud -- feel exempt from following the rules of common courtesy.
Basically, It all comes down to entitlement on both of our parts.
They feel that if they are paying rent, they are entitled to make noise. And, I feel that if I pay an exorbitant price for rent, I'm entitled to silence.
When we lived in our first apartment, I was tormented by our neighbors who shared our bedroom wall. It seemed, that for them, 1 am was the official time to start watching films that go boom.
My technique for dealing with these neighbors? Pathetic. I would hit the shared wall, but never quite hard enough for them to actually hear my fury.
The constant combination of loud explosions and the sound of bass (the sound that is voted most likely to drive me insane) ate away at my ability to happily live in an apartment.
So, you're probably saying "hey, twenty-four year old, how did you get so crotchety?"
To which I reply: My dad made me who I am today.
My father is about a hundred times more sensitive to people and noise -- so much so that it's a fact that at any family gathering or holiday, my father will disappear to a empty room to read or sleep.
If his own family bothers him this much, imagine what strangers do to him.
He's famous for being finicky.
I grew up believing that, at restaurants, it was perfectly normal to carry around your own water and menu around to other tables while deciding on the absolute best table.
The prerequisites to a good table:
1. Enough light for my dad to read.
2. No children, loud parties or loud voices in the vicinity.
And, if for some reason we couldn't get the "ideal" table, my dad would frantically turn around during the duration of the meal -- in a way to say to the other patrons "I don't like you -- you're making too much noise."
I know that's what my dad was thinking since I think the same things now.
But, there is a light at the end of the dysfunctional tunnel.
The neighbors below us make a fair amount of noise.
They're older Russians and have a tendency to TALK REALLY LOUD.
And, from time to time, we hear this loud rock (heavy guitars and bass) music coming from their apartment. Since they're older (probably in their late sixties) and can't possibly like this kind of music, we've guessed that they use it as some sort of burglar deterrent.
For some reason, these sounds don't bother me.
Not even the faint sound of Oleg's snoring.
Perhaps it is because they are our landlord's parents and there isn't really much we can do about the noise. Or, perhaps it is because we've met them and they're nice people.
Regardless of the reason, I'm quite proud of myself.
And, I think it would be safe to say that city life is agreeing with me.
