My Downstairs Neighbor Was Worthy of a Hitchcock Film
Her eyes were filled with murder
I moved to Europe in the fall of 2012. I was “single and fancy-free” with a wanderlust to see the world. My brother was adopted, and though he had no huge desire to visit his mother country, I had always wanted to see where he came from. I left my job, signed up to work with a virtually unknown non-profit organization, packed my bags, and boarded a plane for Romania.
I chose my apartment based primarily on the following reasons:
The landlord spoke English.
It was close to a bus stop.
It fit into my budget and was fully furnished.
I signed the lease and paid the first month’s rent and deposit. I got the keys, and a co-worker who helped me find my new digs dropped me off with my two suitcases and two bags. I planned on staying in my new home for about 10 months. Instead, I stayed there for about 2 years.
As I left my apartment to get groceries for the first time, the weight of this new move hit me. Standing in front of my gray, ex-communist apartment block, I noticed it looked like every other gray communist block row upon row for miles. It was not only possible but very likely, that if I walked away I would have no idea where to find my own home.
Should I leave bread crumbs Hansel and Gretel style? No, that didn’t even work for fictional characters.
I wrote down my street name “Ion Buteanu” on a scrap of paper and took it with me. This was helpful because then I knew where I lived; and if I got lost, I could show others where I lived (because I certainly couldn’t pronounce it as hard as I tried.) — “Yawn Button-on-you? I-on Booty-anew?” Taxi drivers would just stare at me and shake their heads.
Trying to call a taxi to my address made me break out in a cold sweat. I’d speak the few Romanian phrases I knew. Often, they would automatically just start speaking English on the phone. I know they were trying to be helpful, but I always felt like they were saying “Let’s cut the crap, shall we? Just stick to what you know.” Sometimes they just got frustrated and hung up.
Luckily a taxi stand was nearby so I could just show them my address on paper and not have to pronounce it.
I loved my new apartment — it was just the right size. And my landlord was very sweet and helpful. She called me by my last name which made me feel like she was my coach in this new country.
So, Praytor, I picked up the bills today.
Hey, Praytor, how are things going for you?
I talked to the neighbor today, Praytor…
I expected her at any moment to say, “Hustle, hustle.” About a year into the contract she admitted, “Wait, I thought Praytor was your first name...”
The neighborhood was a nice suburban family area. I found my way to and from the apartment by using the “RETRO CLUB” sign and post office as guides.
Everything was perfect — except my downstairs neighbor.
She hated me.
I didn’t notice at first. Most people liked me… or at least, would pretend they did to my face. But probably having a major leak in the kitchen that created a wet, moldy spot on her ceiling the first month of my stay was not the best way to get to know each other, either. My landlord tried to pay her, but that wasn’t good enough.
A Romanian roommate came to join me in my apartment. We should have been any neighbor’s dream. We didn’t play loud music, have wild drunken parties, or even smoke.
But our neighbor was always awake, always watching. Always glaring disapprovingly though she would never deign to look at us. She was a giant in a wool-brimmed hat with bright red hair and a long black coat. Her eyebrows were painted on dark, and a little too high as if she were in a perpetual state of surprise. She dressed exclusively in black and red like an otherworldly representative from hell itself.
I’d smile and greet her with a friendly “Buna ziua.”
She would walk slowly by with an even heavy step, pretending I didn’t exist. You could feel hate radiating off her in a palpable wave.
One night, my roommate and I finished watching a movie on the sofa. She pulled the curtains closed.
That must have been the final straw to burst open our downstairs neighbor’s coffin full of hate. She flew up the stairs like an other-worldly being. We heard someone banging on the door like there was a fire in the building.
The door opened and hell unleashed its fury. My Romanian language skills were still hazy, but the larger-than-life presentation helped me understand most of what she was saying.
“You stomp around like this… Like ELEPHANTS!! You close the blinds at 11:30 at night! You flush the toilet when I am trying to sleep!” She takes my roommate’s things off the built-in next to the door and begins flinging them to the floor to punctuate her points.
She turns to me to pour out more of her vitriol. I have no idea what she is saying, but the show is beginning to be so intense it is bordering on comical.
“I will CALL the Police!”, she finishes. “Do you hear me? the POLICE!”
My roommate calmly tells her that she needs to leave or WE will call the police. She closes the door after our neighbors' apoplectic episode and then we look at each other in silence trying to process what just happened.
“I think I missed a lot of what she said because she was talking fast and screaming,” I admitted.
“Well, I was wondering why you didn’t stick up for yourself when she called you a whore,” she said.
The next several nights, our interphone inexplicably rang at 1:30 in the morning, waking us up from a deep sleep.
Then, my roommate went out of town and my mom came for a visit. There was a quiet knock at the door. I peek out the peephole and see a large shadow looming through the peephole with flaming red hair.
“Who is it?” My mom asked innocently.
Shhh… I whisper back. Whatever you do, don’t open that door.
My roommate and I tiptoed literally and figuratively around our neighbor for the remainder of our lease. The black-and-red lady passed us in the hall with unseeing eyes and a death-like coldness. I followed her cues.
Some say you can “kill with kindness” and change a person’s outlook. But this technique doesn’t seem to work on downstairs neighbors.
Sometimes you just have to move.