Brussels
Truly international living.

Highlights include: a hairy German bloke exercising on the decking beneath one's utility-room window. Stark bollock naked, of course.

Trainee opera singers. Pretty good, actually.

A rather rowdy party that went a little too late into the night, and which must have received complaints - only for the proprietor of said party to (very loudly) explain to the darkened houses surrounding his garden the reasons for the party, in a language I sadly couldn't identify. Sadly, because I'm certain his diatribe contained some distinctly colourful language.

Tiny Italian bloke living upstairs, with a never-ending succession of glamorous girlfriends. I only saw him once. Very heavy feet, no carpets, and a terrible taste in music on Saturday mornings.

Unidentified woman who screamed and shouted at some other unidentified person on a telephone for several minutes outside one afternoon, before letting herself into the (one-car) garage underneath my flat, where she sobbed for quarter of an hour or so.

Organ grinder (sans monkey) who trundled along the street, grinding his organ - peering at the windows of houses he went past, presumably in the hope of financial remuneration for his cacophonous stylings.

The ancient ice-cream van which would, without fail, go past playing its tune at 8:30pm every evening.

The sounds of children playing and laughing, only audible from the basement. Belgian Mr. Fritzl?

BEEP-BEEP-BEEP-BEEP-BEEP-BEEEEP - how I identified that the people living in an flat behind mine were British. Radio Four news!
(Happy Idiot Talk now has an alibi for, Fri 2 Oct 2009, 5:13, Reply)