The Pandemic and My Identity Crisis: Am I an Extrovert Now?
Six months ago, we had really loud upstairs neighbors. Like, really really loud.
We live in a narrow palazzo (buidling), similar to the row houses you'd find in New England, with each room of our apartment occupying the palazzo's entire width. It is only by walking the full length of our home that you can reach everything; front bedroom, living room, kitchen, master bedroom all lined up in a long, narrow row, with the bathrooms tucked neatly into their own pockets.
Off of our master bedroom at the back, our building shares a small internal courtyard with the buildings next door and, thanks to the tall, stone palazzi which surround it, this small area's acoustics could out perform Sydney's Opera Hall.
Each noise, however small, is amplified beyond belief.
We've learned a lot about our neighborhood by the sounds that fill this courtyard. There is a grandmother who sometimes hosts her young grandson overnight and we often hear bedtime negotiations when he's in town ("Just one more booooook!") One neighbor loves to play piano and sing which can be nice. (Until it's not.) I can even hear when one neighbor takes his nightly shower, during which he loudly clears is sinuses and throat of mucus. (Yikes.)
All of these are considered hazards of living in this gorgeous but ancient city and I can only imagine what "dirt" our neighbors have on me - especially in summer when our windows are always open once the cool evening hours hit. If anything, they have discovered my love of binge watching trashy reality television on the rare occasion I have the whole place to myself.
There are four units in our building, although the ground floor is a small business and the only other apartment which is regularly occupied other than ours sits just above us. During non-pandemic times it is rented out on a short- or mid-term basis to tourists and students.
In line with traditional Florentine architecture, our ceilings boast beautiful, exposed wooden beams which is one of the features we loved most about this place before we signed the rental agreement; although it doesn't really allow for much insulation. Italian homes are rarely - if ever - carpeted. In fact, most Italians I've met believe carpeted homes are quite unsanitary, and in our case, the whole building has gorgeous terracotta tiling in each of the rooms. All of this means, of course, there is little to no sound barrier and we get to hear with accute awareness every step our upstairs neighbors make.
This is not uncommon in Italy, and most Italians who live in urban settings try to mitigate this as much as possible by wearing their house shoes or slippers while indoors and only put their outdoor shoes on when they are just about to leave the door. As a study abroad administrator, I've seen it literally written into housing agreements that students are not to wear high heels in their apartment as this is particularly annoying for downstairs neighbors. The incessant clonk, clonk, clonk as the high heeled neighbor walks from room to room can be annoying at 7pm, and downright unbearable in the middle of the night.
Anyway, so our neighbors upstairs leading up to the pandemic were US study abroad students. And they were loud. Really loud.
High heels always. Heartfelt, belt-it-out kind of singing when one particular girl had the place to herself. Blood-curdling screams and frantic running around when a weird bug or big spider got inside. Conversations that were more shouted at each other than spoken. Never parties, but regular pre-outing gatherings.
All in all, pretty normal stuff you would expect from a household of four, twenty-something study abroad students. And to be fair, the noise almost always died down around 11pm. I was a study abroad student myself - more years ago than I am willing to admit - and I got my fair share of irritated Italian grandmothers back in the day, knocking on our door to keep it down at 10pm when, in our minds, we were simply having a conversation at a reasonable hour with our closest friends we had packed into our tiny living room (read: we were also very loud).
Both my husband and I would lament our neighbors' loudness privately, but agreed that we would always be welcoming and friendly in our shared stairwell. And so we were.
When COVID hit, I was in the hospital recovering from heart surgery. The day I was discharged was the day the girls upstairs found out they had 48 hours to pack their belongings and go home. Like every program in Florence, theirs was suspending classes and sending students back to the US. My husband received a lovely note from one of the girls that day, apologizing for all the noise in the previous six months and thanking us for being such friendly neighbors.
By the end of their time in Florence, we had - yes - asked a few times if they could keep it down, or at the very least save the high heels for right before they left the house. But, we also helped coordinate plumbing visits, or held their packages for them, and then there was that one time we helped them in translating when a friend required medical care. You know, neighborly stuff. Upon their departure, we wished them well, and we genuinely do hope they are doing ok.
Despite the looming sense of panic and dread the pandemic created, and despite the reason the girls were sent home, I have to admit.... I was on cloud nine when I came home to a quiet house and blessedly empty apartment building.
EMPTY. SILENCE. SOLITUDE.
Basically, an introvert's dream!
And, boy.... was I living my dream. In the beginning, I loved lockdown. Plenty of alone time with my family. No reason to be anywhere. We not only had permission to stay home all day, but it was mandatory! All my friends and family - who are spread all over the world - were readily available to "hang out" via our computers and phones. An absolute dream!
But... dare I say it? I'm realizing now how I might miss some of the noise. I'm missing some of the life that came with having neighbors in our building.
This was made abundantly clear by an interaction I had several weeks ago.
I was coming home from the grocery store with my daughter, both our arms weighed down by heavy bags. When we were about a block away from home, I had the odd feeling that a young couple was following us, but at first I chalked it up to the narrow roads and somewhat crowded street. When they stopped right behind us as I started opening our building's door, I was officially on alert. So, I turned to ask if I could help them.
"Oh, we need to get into this building as well," they laughed politely as they studied the short list of family names attached to gold plated doorbells, looking for the right one to buzz.
"Really?!" I couldn't contain my enthusiasm. "Are you our new neighbors?!!" I was now smiling from ear to ear.
They shifted and smiled uncomfortably, and responded, "Um, no.... we're just guests."
Profoundly confused by this, but assuming there must be new occupants in our building (weird, I hadn't heard them arrive), I greeted them with an enthusiastic and awkward, "Well, welcome!!" I topped it off with an excited wave, picked up my grocery bags, and went inside as they remained at street level, studying the doorbells again.
Once upstairs, having fully acclimated to nosy Italian nonna status, I immediately went to our front room window where I could see and hear them calling their friends on the street below.
"Ah, wrong address, we're on our way," I heard them say to the friend on the other side of the conversation. And off they went down the street, laughing about how weirded out they were by that lady (me) who was so excited to see them.
I've thought about this interaction a lot over the past few weeks. It poignantly marked the end of my fervent desire for solitude. It marked the beginning of a summer filled with near daily interaction with friends, small gatherings, and even group vacations. (All safely done, of course, in this time of COVID.)
This shift was major for me, as after about two months of lockdown, crippling lonliness and anxiety had firmly set in; this was served with a side of pandemic depression just for fun. In the midst of all this, and knowing myself as a lifelong introvert, I had sought even more alone time - my go-to in times of distress. But, this time it was different; being alone never alleviated the pain. I had no idea that by looking outward I would find my joy - in the very people I was often so quick to run away from in an attempt to "feel better."
I now sit typing this out from my silent apartment. The only noise I hear is the rotating floor fan trying (unsuccessfully) to keep me cool. My husband and daughter are still up north with the nonni. I'm deeply enjoying this time to write and be alone, yes. But, I'm also looking forward to the dinner plans with friends I have tomorrow and the social hike I'll go on later this week. I can't wait for my family to come home and fill the house with life and noise again. I'm scrolling through my phone to see who I haven't called in a while so we can catch up. I'm curious and excited to welcome new upstairs neighbors if, one day, we ever get any.
I'm still trying to decide if the pandemic has converted me to extroversion, or if this is just another life lesson in balance and moderation in everything. Perhaps it all comes down to that in the end. Maybe when I'm back to interacting with humans all day long for a living, I'll return to coping through solutide. It's hard to tell.
What I do know, is that being with people has saved me this summer. And for this realization and the many people who have pulled me out of the darkness, I am so grateful.