I didn’t realize how good I had it since moving into my apartment until about a week ago, when I suddenly started hearing the sound of shuffling feet and sliding furniture above me. Soon after that, I could hear mumbled conversations and laughter. Guess I had new upstairs neighbors. Either the previous tenants were super quiet, or the unit above me on the 36th floor was one of the many empty apartments that were scooped up by the same speculators that devoured the Shanghai housing market the past four years. In any case, it’s not empty anymore.
I’ve made my fair share of noise in my previous stints in rented apartments, especially during my undergraduate days, where the San Pablo Denny’s was the place for studying, and the apartment was a place for drunken wrestling in the living room and blasting Pharcyde mp3s from both bedrooms. “I can handle this,” I thought to myself, and proceeded to ignore it.
Steadily, it got worse. Thursday night, the tenants were hosting some sort of gathering; there was distinct bellowing and laughing stretching to 2 a.m. Unbelievably, I had planned to go into the office the following day, so that definitely grouched me up a bit. Friday and Saturday nights were worse, as people started crowding onto the balcony with their beers and chortles, the noise spreading out into the night air and stinging my ears like a swarm of mosquitoes. On Sunday night, one of the guys decided to conduct an hour-long cell phone conversation on that same balcony in a booming, mind-numbing voice that reminded me of Jacob Silj, the Will Ferrell character on SNL who suffered from Voice Immodulation Syndrome and couldn’t speak quietly. The balcony is basically about three meters away from my bedroom window, and the last thing I wanted to hear before I went to sleep at night was: “It’s called Park 97. PARK 97! P-A-R-K! 97!”
The biggest crime of all is that I can hear the music they’re playing…and it’s not good news, folks. Resident of Apartment 36-A in building number 4 (I’ll leave out the rest of my address for fear that my legions of stalking fans in Shanghai will now have a way to ‘get to me’), please take notice: STOP PLAYING LENNY KRAVITZ CIRCA 1993!
Anyway, I’m not sure what I can do about it. I mean, I’m sure they’re nice people who just have bad musical taste and don’t really know how loud they’re being. And I’m a little disappointed in the construction of my building; I can even hear when they flush the toilet (eeeeeeeew). The thought did cross my mind to drop them a note or even give a friendly knock on their door. But then I realized that that’s something I would have done back in San Francisco. Here in China, where the tendency is still to keep to yourself and not get involved, doing something like that might catch both of us off guard. Which is strange, considering that, judging from their accents, they’re American expats and so am I.
Maybe the right solution is to drop subtle hints, like leaving a Jay Chou CD at their doorstep or something. Or a piece of dog shit. I’ll have to sleep on it tonight, assuming Jacob Silj doesn’t make another balcony appearance.
