Neighbors

Growing up in the Merriam Park and Macalester-Groveland neighborhoods of St. Paul, I was used to wide streets, front and back lawns, grassy boulevards, and plenty of space between houses. It was rare to hear neighbors talking inside their house, listening to their music, or cooking their food.

Life in our small town has been a good crash course in high-density housing – at least the kind you might encounter in a hot climate where most doors and windows are open most of the time. Few secrets could be held in our town, because you can hear much of what is happening in the neighbors’ homes. We know when they are making dinner, watching TV, taking a bath, yelling, or playing. Fortunately for us, I think, the language barrier works in our favor – I don’t have to worry about people understanding the conversations I have with Robert, and I can tune out much of what is happening outside in a way that I might not be able to if it was in English.

Despite the noise and relative lack of privacy, however, I have grown used to living in such a close space. It’s nice to know that if you had a problem, it would be easy to find someone to help out. Many of the sounds have grown comforting in their own way: garlic sizzling in the wok, wooden window shutters closing, chairs being dragged back under the awning for the night. As I type I can hear water running as the dishes are washed next door.

In the photo, our house is the pink one, the blue is next door, and the brown is behind.