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I’m guess I’m kind of a stalker, but not in the super creepy, “file a restraining order” kind of way.

I feel like I had a little freak-out yesterday, and instead of readdressing it, I’m moving on.  I’m letting go, it’s water under the bridge, and all that other good philosophy.

Ahem.

I kind of feel like a stalker, and in some ways it is really comforting.  (No, this doesn’t have anything to do with x-non-boyfriends getting married.  Promise.)(And even though I said it was “comforting” and I meant it that doesn’t make me super creepy…right?)  I have lived in my current apartment for three years, exactly.  Today is my [redacted address] Rentiversary.  In the last three years I have indirectly learned a lot of things about my neighbors, and it is strangely comforting to observe their daily routines.

The older gentleman who lives next door sits on his porch every morning with his coffee and his cigar, reading the paper, watching the neighborhood and occasionally talking to his adorable, puffy little dog. The landlord from across the street spends his evenings on the porch with a long-time resident and the gentleman from next door, smoking cigars, having drinks, and talking about power tools, wine, sports or family. They say hello and wave every single time I see them.  On Sunday afternoons all three of these men get together for dinner and the menu is a topic of discussion for several days before-hand.

From my bedroom window I can see into the living rooms of two apartments in the building next door.  The one directly across from me houses two 30-something guys who have had a long series of plants in their window that start out green and lovely and after a few weeks start to wilt and inevitably die.  They sit there dead and depressing for a week or two and are replaced.  Perhaps they should just admit they are no good at growing plants?

One floor below this black-thumbed duo is a young, artistic couple.  From my window I can see into their main living space.  I’ve watched him paint at the window.  I’ve watched her sew at the dining room table.  I’ve watched them laugh and slow dance together late at night.  I’ve watched them eat dinner, watch TV, and even the occasional fight. I’ve watched them have parties on weekends (it should be noted: I’ve also heard their parties which routinely last until three or four in the morning and have resulted–several times–in drunken persons peeing on the side of their building or my building and my calling the police.  Do you know what it’s like to be kept awake for hours by Techno Punk music and then assaulted with the smell of fresh urine wafting through your window at 3:30 in the morning?  Yes?  Ok, then you understand my call to the police.  No?  Well, let me tell you, a call to the cops is TOTALLY justified).  I’ve watched them decorate for the holidays and have friends over (friends who do not pee on the sides of apartment buildings) for appetizers.  He wears skinny jeans and v-neck, graphic T shirts.  She wears skinny jeans with swingy tops and ballet flats.  Their walls are covered in fantastic art and their furniture is all mid-century modern with colorful lamps, pillows and throws.  They usually order take-out on Sunday night and take their own bags to the grocery store.  I feel like I know these people even though we’ve never met and I don’t know their first names; and apart from the friends-peeing-on-the-sides-of-the-building incidents, I think they are lovely.

Sometimes it is a little weird that I know so much about these strangers who live next door.  It’s not that I sit staring out my window with binoculars or bug their apartments or anything super creepy like that.  It’s an apartment.  In a city.  It happens.

That being said, it is sometimes incredibly comforting to know that most mornings the artist will be sprawled out on the window seat with the cat, setting out his paints and brushes and a half-finished canvas.  The dead plant is always replaced with a fresh green one.  If the gentleman next door isn’t on his porch in the morning I worry that he is sick.  If the landlord from across the street isn’t tinkering around in his shop on Saturday I wonder where on earth he could be.  My across-the-hall neighbor plays the accordion, grows vegetables in pots and only buys low-energy lightbulbs.  I’m not sure who, exactly, drives the motorcycle that is always parked below my bedroom window, but they go to work at 6:20 every morning and that Harley has become more dependable than my alarm clock.

Three years of memories and little bits of daily life certainly add up.  Strange as it seems, I love that I have accumulated these little memories from my neighborhood, it makes me feel like I’m home.  I can only imagine what kind of information my neighbors have on me; the mind reels at the thought.

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