Ah, the glamour of city life:  The elegant manifestations of culture, the glittering cocktail parties, the sophistication of one’s fellow urban denizens.   These are the reasons one lives in a major city, yes?  They were a big part of the draw for me, particularly when I was growing up on my family’s farm, dreaming of a grander life.   And the fusion of city perks coupled with aesthetic beauthy was why I moved to from New York to San Francisco, with its uniquely laid-back style and wide array of things to do. 

What the Chamber of Commerce literature didn’t mention was the grittier side of city living:  The overcrowded buses and roadways, the tempers that run high, the labyrinthine set of rules governing the simplest of tasks . . . like taking out the garbage.   Vicissitudes such as these are enough to give one pause when moving to a new city, and to this list I will add another — the joys of multiple-dwelling units.

Having lived in Boston and New York, I’m well accustomed to the idea of cramming as many people into one space as possible.  My last apartment in New York was in a building with over 600 units, which is more residences than can be found in my entire hometown.  But I guess I’ve been lucky in the ‘quality of construction’ department, because I’ve never been bothered noise from any of my neighbors.

Until now.  At the moment, I’m living in an old Victorian in San Francisco’s Richmond District.  A beautiful building to be sure, but one whose walls weren’t exactly built with privacy in mind.  In fact, the place was originally a single-family home; but as with so many constructions of its type, the owner has converted it into multiple apartments. 

My upstairs neighbors don’t keep normal hours, to put it politely.  Once I was awakened at 5 a.m. by what I thought was a thunderstorm or an earthquake, but turned out to be the people upstairs arriving home after a long night of carousing.  They brought their festivities home with them, as evidenced by the music they were kind enough to blare, as well as the unmistakable aroma of McDonald’s french fries.  All of that was easily remedied with a pair of earplugs, along with a reminder that I too was somewhat erratic with my hours in my youth.  But what happened yesterday caught me off guard.

I had invited some friends over for drinks, my first-ever such gathering in San Francisco.  There I was, a farm boy in the big city, hosting my friends (of the elegant, sophisticated and glittering variety) at a party;  and there they were, nibbling those fancy appetizers that you read about in Gourmet and sipping some carefully-chosen California wines.  I’d selected the music carefully to evoke the right ambiance, and even fussed with the lighting to ensure it was flattering.  

Then suddenly, the neighbors announced themselves; but not with their usual gift of music, nor even the thunderous clomping of their boots on the stairs.  Oh no, this was something even more special.  This time, they were doing something that was intensely . . . (ahem) personal in nature.

Our conversation stopped.  It couldn’t be! seemed to be the general reaction, but as our friends upstairs “progressed,” there was no mistaking what they were up to.  The pace quickened, then slowed, then gathered in intensity, and . . . well, you get the idea.  Suffice it to say their enthusiasm became our entertainment for the evening.  Not exactly what I had in mind when planning my little gathering, but I’ve no doubt that it’s a party my friends will remember.

 Add this one under “urban perils.”

Posted on December 13th, 2007 by Thomas
Filed under: San Francisco