An old story

The camping trip was cut short for want of children's tylenol. Fever and listlessness pushing me from the back seat as I clenched the steering wheel back to civilization. No one should be sick in a campground.

Later.

The afternoon sun shone water shades on the far wall. D on the balcony watched the yellow, not orange, digger in front of the building. Dig-dig-dig-digging the dry asphalt.

And then a HISSSS louder than a hiss should be. The smell of gas is everywhere.

The workers running down the street and me wondering what to do. Who do I call? I looked at the phone blankly. I pressed 0 then thought better of it. I stepped onto the balcony and yelled to the workers, Should we leave? Yes.

Suddenly panic. Larger than thought. Bigger than my brain. All I can see is the building exploding, fake-mournful anchormen talking about it on the evening news. All I can think is I have to get D out of here. Out. Of. Here. Now.

I don't work well in a panic.

I take D and run out of the building, stopping to bang on the neighbour's door, il faut dire a maman qu'il faut partir. C'est dangereux.

And then.

And then on the street corner with a feverish boy in my arms. No money, no cellphone, no shoes for my boy. Flip flops on my feet and the sun shining bright and yellow on the fire trucks that are taking over the street. A woman near me starts to panic. Ohmygod, ohmygod. She is overreacting. D takes a huge, fever releasing dump. It goes up his back and along my arm.

The fireman I harass says it will be at least an hour before we can go back in but probably more. I leave poo fingerprints on the cellphones I borrow.

I walk to the park and try to wipe my arm on the grass. D and I stink like shit. Greek women with gardening tools look askance. I cannot stay here. I cannot bear being looked at that way. I need a diaper and wipes and shoes for D. The sun is hot and now so close to the jungle gym, D wants to play. But he has no shoes. He is covered in crap.

And that's why it is good to know your neighbours.

The flower shop.

I sweatily explain. Someone gets diapers, expensive ones, he doesn't have kids. I wash D in the sink in the back among the stems and leaves. Eventually we are rescued by the rescuer.

Lesson learned: always take cellphone and wallet. And shoes for all family members. And a diaper or two. And always always be nice to the neighbours.

The life in the hall

One of the often unmentioned side-effects of living in an apartment building is that you get to know very quickly what your neighbours are cooking. And not because they tell you.

This is not necessarily a bad thing. The smell of my neighbour cooking chapatis is enough to make me salivate. And the wafting smell of fried onions is nice in the evening.

I am less certain about the culinary tastes of my other four neighbours. Someone was boiling broccoli at 7 am this morning. Broccoli. 7 am. This is not a nice smell. Another neighbour, on the ground floor, starts his day with what smells like an onion and garlic smoothie. Oh kiss me, Kate.

And what the neighbours think when they pass in front of my door? The poor woman subsists on boiled beans and incense! Think of the child!

Romeo, Romeo

My son has fallen in love with the neighbours. They are a family originally from Pakistan. They have three children, aged six, three and just under two. They have a TV and microwave popcorn at their house, neither of which we have at ours.

Standing on the front balcony, my son can see but not touch the neighbour kids. He cries because they are so close yet so far away. He goes to the back balcony, which we share with our neighbours, and rattles their door, hoping they will open the door, hoping they will come out. He sits, disappointed and dejected, when they don't. He can hear them laughing and playing on their side of the wall and this is a bitter pill indeed. He walks around saying 'hi, friends' in the hopes that these words will act as the magic wand to make the neighbours appear. To console himself, he says 'friends busy'. This is what I have taught him when their door is closed.

This is a tricky dance. The neighbour-kid-dance. The mother's lack of English prevents a frank discussion of the type 'when is it ok for the kids to play together and when is it not?' I can feel the hesitation wafting from both sides of the balcony. Neither of us wants to over-impose or take advantage. We don't want our kids to be messy, obnoxious or wearing-out their welcome. So we are careful, keeping our doors closed more often than not. When the doors are open, we exchange greetings, and small gifts of food, as the kids run screamingly from house to house, my son becoming more and more hysterically excited with each lap.

Yesterday, my son gave the little boy a smack on the head. The mother looked shocked. Play time quickly ended after that.

Yes, I am that kid's mother. Perhaps this is why the door has been so firmly closed today and why my son has spent a good part of the morning moping.

Birds of a feather

The thing with moving is that it takes me time to settle-in.

My spirit rises from my body and takes a week or two to drift back down to earth. I wander around confused and distracted, misplacing the phone, glasses of cold water, pens. Bird-brained, I seek my roost and can't seem to understand that this new breezy apartment is my home.

I bump into furniture in the dark. My washing machine won't work. And last night I slipped and landed with a full-body thud onto the balcony in a misguided attempt to right a fallen plant. Note to self: the balcony is slippery as ice when wet.

I'll call when I land.