Samba to wake the dead

Tonight there is a party in another appartment in my building. It could be close, but it could also be several floors – or even streets – away, because it is so damned loud it could be heard in Finland.

H went to sleep ok – that kid could fall asleep in a Bon Jovi concert – so now it’s only me awake listening to ear-splitting samba that shakes the content of my shelves, and causes my door frames to creak in alarm. I have nothing against parties, except when I am trying to sleep. I don’t try to sleep very often, only once a day or so, so it isn’t much to ask.

I could go downstairs and bug them, but – being Sweden – that isn’t necessary. Since this is a rental apparement, there is a number you ring to report this sort of thing. Then they send out a couple of beefy guys who will pop by, holding clipboards, and ask terribly nicely if they wouldn’t at all mind just shutting the fuck up. This generally works for 20 minutes or so, until the men have gone away, and then they crank up the volume even higher to account for the missing 20 minutes of sweat and enjoyment.

The only real solution is ear-plugs. I have kick-ass, silicon earplugs that create an air-lock over the ear canal, and block out everything. I’ll give them a try later.

When I was a lad, if you were having a party you would always invite the neighbours, to keep the peace. They would almost never come, but it was a common courtesy. But in Sweden…you can forget that, buddy. You see your neighbours on two occasions – when they piss in the stairwell at 3 in the morning; and when they batter on your door to complain about something unsavoury you did, like leaving a bicycle outside your door, or a dead weasel in their letterbox. And that’s it.

And to be very honest, I never saw the fucking point of samba either.

/ paddy

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