I’m lying on my bed. I just shut off the air-conditioning. Sound of silence. Ready to sleep.

Wait a sec… something is wrong in this picture. Cool temperature ? No noise ? Oh yeah… I’m in Canada !

See, I grew up in France in what North Americans call an heritage building. I mean, you would probably take a picture of it. Six storey, white façade, balconies, big wooden door leading to an inside courtyard, wooden stairs.

To French, it’s just a fairly non-attractive building : white façade equals frequent renovating when you breath dust and can’t open windows for months, big wooden doors equals all dogs will pee on it, balconies scream “I grow my own weed!”.

Forget about air-conditioning : the pipes are so old you can’t do much with them. As for central heating… we had a portable heater. By portable, I mean we had to carry the 200 pounds metal radiator from room to room. Stop laughing – we had running water, it wasn’t that bad. Although hot water was limited – the water balloon wasn’t big and well, I liked long bath.

And of course, we had neighbors. My parents lived on the second floor. Below was a night club. Bad idea – I know. But we were here before the damned disco !

The music itself wasn’t a problem. One good thing about 300 years old buildings is they are pretty soundproof. However, when the disco closed its doors at 4 am, people would gather on the streets, their faces red from the heat and the alcohol, and all heat up. They then indulged themselves in common night activities such as : puking in the street, yelling out to their friends, arguing about where to go next and throwing glass bottles at each other. They would fight and occasionally stab each other. Then the police would come and arrest the wrong people. Which would lead to more fights. And less sleep for us.

In summer, my whole family stood on the balcony and commented the scene. May as well enjoy the free play, right ? You guys watch it on Jerry Springer, we like live action best.

Most people in the building didn’t mind the disco. In fact, we were the only family here. Recently renovated apartment were popular with rich kids who liked the downtown location and the convenience of just having to climb the stairs to nurse their hangover.

So they would start the party in their own apartment before going to the disco downstairs. Ten o’clock, the whole posse climbs the stairs. The wooden stairs. Herd of elephants. Eleven o’clock : why not put a bit of music ? Better : let’s put the stereo on the balcony ! Midnight : why not throw wine bottle out of the window ? Etc.

My favourite neighbor was the medicine student who lived on the 4th floor. He was so concerned with the environment ! Oh yes he was… Every night, when he was drunk enough, an inspired though would come to his head : “what if I took down all the wine bottle I drunk tonight ?”. So he would open the door. Put the bottles in a plastic bag. Swear because the bottle didn’t fit in the plastic bag. Go with it anyway. Trip down the stairs. Swear more. Bottle are rolling down the stairs. Bottle picked up. Tripped down the stairs again.

The longest four floors ever.

I’m now living in a house, in front of an experimental farm. I can’t even hear the corn. The sixteen years old kid next door does listen to loud music… about twenty minutes a day. I can hear cars outside if I really pay attention.

Canada is the country of peaceful sleep. Trust me.