Instead of the grand old parlor and formal dining room with high ceilings and original fireplaces, a low, slate-tiled entry points you right into the kitchen (what would the Victorians have thought?). The walls have skimpy moldings now, and there's a gas fireplace with a new mantel. It's all very McMansion-y; instead of Back Bay, you could easily be in an upscale new condo in Billerica.
It isn't an interestingly stylish or arty design — like our friends' ash-and-steel marvel, a block away, which was featured in The New York Times. Although the paint is still fragrant (we smell it in our place), it already looks like it could be 10 years old. To me, that's a predictably depressing thing about "contemporary" design. Trends and tastes shift so quickly that even brand-new rooms can seem dated from the get-go.
To us and to many of our neighbors, modern renovations just don't make sense within the context of a 19th-century building. For us, the whole point of living in Back Bay is to enjoy and preserve its Victorian and Edwardian features, inside and out. If you're just going to demolish them, why not move into some sleek new construction in the South End? Why mess with history?
Most Back Bay residences were built as single-family homes: they are "porous" — not a bit sound-proofed, as multi-family buildings should be. When most of the old houses were divided into multi-family dwellings, those units weren't sealed, making it harder to live among noisy or smelly neighbors. Living in Back Bay often feels more like sharing a house than living in an apartment. I've done it for nearly 30 years and rarely had problems. I like having neighbors nearby. (Or I once did.)
The new neighbors had an inkling of this problem. They lowered their ceiling to install a foot or so of high-tech soundproofing. They assured us that we'd never hear each other — or at least they'd never hear us. Since the ceiling medallions were already gone (along with 37 tons of demo material) we tried to be enthusiastic. The construction manager told us when the unit had been "completely sealed" from ours, so that noise and cooking fumes wouldn't permeate our unit.
In reality... not so much. The structural "changes in the basement created big gaps at the joints of our floors and walls. Dirt, noise, and smells float in. (We also have several doors that no longer close, huge new cracks in many of our walls and ceilings, and a buckled floor, which they say they'll repair. There's also damage to our meticulously hand-built, wood-paneled bathroom that needs expert attention.)
Because of the floor cracks, we are overwhelmed by cooking smells at lunch and dinnertime. We feel drafts from their central air conditioning (we have none; theirs isn't enough). When they cook meat, the greasy fumes fill our rooms and linger. Opening a window brings in their exhaust fan's fumes, too. For more than a a decade, we lived here above people who loved broiling steaks and using multiple heads of garlic, and only got tempting whiffs as we passed through the lobby. So much for all that expensive "sealing" in the ceiling.
Although the new neighbors live here now, the dust has yet to settle — there are still workmen in the front and back gardens, which have been wrecked since last summer. We are still awakened by Irish swearing around 7 am, Monday through Saturday (the building permit says Monday–Friday). In the beginning, we were promised that we would not be inconvenienced. Now we're told that we are not being inconvenienced — that our complaints are just spoiled whining.
There's something about living through 10 months of daily, unapologetic racket that leaves a painful mark, especially when you realize that when it finally ends, your longed-for peace will in fact be marred by the presence of unpleasant neighbors. It makes you long for a single-family home, even if it's in Billerica.
We all tried to be polite and understanding in the first months, but things deteriorated. I believe we had legitimate complaints: no heat for weeks in the fall, for example. No water. No power. Days when our front doors wouldn't lock because of structural shifts. Workmen taking over our precious, newly purchased parking space. By spring, there were long, fierce email exchanges, pitting the new owners against those who've lived here for decades. (Even though he arrived via the newbies, the building manager/referee invariably sides with us old timers.)
My final straw was learning that my signature (as a trustee) had been forged on a design proposal to the local architectural commission. Although they knew I was opposed, the neighbors wanted to take a quarter of the front yard to make a concrete surround for their basement windows. I heard about it in time to write to the commission to rescind "my signature." I also wrote to the owners, carefully explaining my preservationist reasons for objecting, never mentioning that I didn't appreciate having my signature forged on official documents. In response, I was sneered at for being obstructionist. And that was mild compared to the litanies of hair-raising insults and accusations we've both received more recently. Nastiness, forgery, and deceit? You don't want that downstairs.
I feel uncomfortable living here, knowing they're below us. Their latest email bitterly noted that we hadn't officially "welcomed" them upon moving in. (After what they wrote, were they expecting a gift basket?) Hearing their voices gives me goosebumps. For the past few days, I couldn't persuade myself to go downstairs to sort the mail. I hope I will get over this. I'm many people live for years among even worse neighbors: noisy, obnoxious drunks, for example. (But hey, we do, too... less of a nuisance, actually, except at 3 am on weekends). I tried to cheer myself up by reading horror stories about neighbors on ApartmentTherapy.com. If you have your own tale, please tell me! Anyway, I'm happiest now when I've made it out the front door, knowing I'll be away from our formerly beloved apartment for hours.
It's time to move. More on that subject soon.
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