La Voisine Folle Part 100

Around 11 this morning, after trying in vain to force hot water out my sink, I decided to ask my non-crazy neighbor if she had the same problem and discover if this was indeed the work of the devious French utility company against my apartment.
I rang at her door. Like clockwork, the *crazy* neighbor on the other side suddenly popped out of her own door.

"The police are watching you!"
"Go away."
"Look at you, spying on the neighbor with your ear against the door. They're watching you, the whole building is watching you!"
"Go away."
"I'm calling the police!"
"Go away."
"Son of a whore!"

Whoa. That was a left-turn.
Now normally I think crazy neighbors are kind of funny--at the very least, her psychotic rants are a small break in the routine over here. But menacingly calling someone a "son of a whore" drops from being "amusing" to "only slightly amusing." This comes only two days after she burst into my conversation party and made the same rants about owning a hotel, having the police spy on me, etc. etc.
Thus, I finally got enough motivation to go to the police and register a complaint against this lunatic.
Of course, this is Paris. I waited an hour in a line that I didn't even have to wait in. After I finally got inside, I waited alone in a pale-yellow room for nearly 45 minutes.
When I finally talked to a policeman, he informed me that since it was really just an "insult," nothing would hold up in a complaint against her unless she kept it up. So he registered some kind of preliminary complaint which will blossom into a full-grown one after a bit more harassment (which is sure to come).
I also noticed that the lock on my mailbox had been changed, as of this morning. The hilarity never ends!

I would like to briefly compare the American versus the French way of doing things. Let's say I need an electric razor. The American way:

I go to CVS whenever I want, 2 minutes away.
"A razor, please."
"15 dollars. Thank you, have a nice day!"

The French way:

I take a 45-minute metro ride to some obscure electronics store in the suburbs. I am fifth in line and wait 45 minutes.
"A razor, please."
"Okay. Do you have a copy of your CV, a letter of motivation, and three passport pictures?"
"A letter of motivation? I need to shave."
"Do not get huffy with me, young man!"
"Sorry. Here's three passport pictures.
"You are not wearing a green shirt in your pictures."
"What? Why do I need a green shirt?"
"Without a passport picture, you must carve a bust of yourself out of this block of marble before midnight."
"But I don't have a chisel."
"Then you must fill out these forms to apply for a government approved chisel which will arrive in 6 to 8 weeks."
"I don't have a pen on me..."
"You can fill out this form to apply for a temporary vistor's pen. Use this wedge of Camembert in the meantime."
"How can I write using cheese?"
(French person dumps pot of scalding water on my head)


Anyway, it's off to solfege.
I am coming to realize that, whatever slight talents I may have when it comes to actually playing the piano, I am far, far away from being a gifted "musician" in general. My sight-reading teacher actually whacked my hands yesterday and described my work as "frightful." And my solfege teacher gives far more attention to the only other student in the class--a 14-year old girl who obviously shows much more promise in solfege than a grizzled 23-year old with a large yogurt stain on his sweater. I'm going to the dry-cleaner's tomorrow, I promise.