Good morning, it’s 7 am, and I am awoken by the French.
Not freshly baked croissants. Not the glittering reflection of the Eiffel Tower. The darker, more sinister French: French people. Oui oui, merde, pute, is all I hear in my thin-walled Airbnb. That and loud splashes from the neighbouring Airbnb’s complementary pool.
Look, I’m happy for people on holiday. I really am. I just wish they were happy elsewhere after 10 pm. I haven’t had any sleep these past three days, and I’m at that point where I’m so tired I’m nauseous.
I live in an enclave of Airbnbs—some short-term, some long-term—and it’s clear the short-term ones, especially the one with that Godforsaken garden pool, have the party reputation. I’ve barely been here a week and have already seen two rotations of neighbours in that Airbnb—both French, both loud.
Every time I look out the window, it’s a sea of unfamiliar people in a now-familiar garden. It actually makes for an incredible people-watching spot—which you may or may not know is a delectable hobby of mine.
So sometimes, as petty payback for their loudness, I unleash my inner perv and stare at them as they flop about in their swimsuits.
It’s my idea of a nightmare neighbour, so I can only hope it’s theirs too.
To clarify, I’m not a crude person. I’m just a vindictive one. I wouldn’t have to be a Peeping Tom if they didn’t give me a reason to be. So a little consideration on their part would actually spare us all from me becoming a monster.
I can’t help but think this invasion of the boisterous French is payback for the way I treated my French neighbour in Amsterdam eight years ago. In my defense, the rent was so high I assumed soundproof walls were part of the deal.
So after particularly awful days, I’d let out all my pent-up energy with a scream while punching pillows until my knuckles chafed raw.
Turns out the room wasn’t soundproof at all, and the Frenchwoman heard all my screams.
Poor woman.
It can’t even say it was a one-off. It happened pretty frequently—sometimes up to four times a week, depending on whether I was dating the devil’s spawn at the time or not.
A couple of months into my screaming exorcisms, I suppose she’d finally had enough because she sent security to have a talk with me. Frankly, I commend her. I don’t know how she lasted that long.
Given my history with the French, maybe I need a different perspective. Perhaps if I adopt a Man’s Search for Meaning approach and view the influx of loud French neighbors as karma for what I once did to a Frenchwoman, I can make peace with it all.
But I don’t think I’m mature enough for that. So I’ll just gawk at their fleshy bits through my window—aware it might mean paying karmic debts to the French for the rest of my life.