“This is unacceptable, Jacques!” echoes through the lobby of the Wyatt as soon as Corinne and I step in. The closer I get to my doorstep, the more I feel yesterday’s cross-country exhaustion in my bones. I’m ready for an American nap until I recognize the voice. Mrs. Cloutier.

“I’m late for a call with my dad,” Corinne whispers, checking her watch. Every tenant is used to looking the other way after overhearing Cloutier berating this or that building employee.

“I’ll text you later.”

After a quick peck on the lips, Corinne bullets up the stairs. She stops midway through and backtracks down the same staircase, her footsteps lighter than a mouse’s, and kisses me again. God, will that ever stop feeling so amazing?

Once I hear her footsteps disappear, I sigh and approach the corner where I know I’ll spot Mrs. Cloutier berating her favorite punching bag.

“Honestly, I don’t understand what’s so hard about that, Jacques,” her voice whines.

“We’re trying our best to pinpoint the problem, Mrs. Cloutier,” Dad says, polite and contrite. He’s crouched on all fours, work gloves on, applying plaster to a caved-in corner of the wall that’s recently been scuffed by the Pattersons moving furniture.

It’s not an uncommon scenario: Cloutier happened upon him working on one building issue, which of course is the perfect opportunity to bring up all her woes from the fourth floor.

“Your best on these matters is known to leave something to be desired, no offense.” She sighs. I sneak behind a pillar and lean in to avoid being seen.

City life tends to breed rudeness. Or at least a level of comfort with open displays of rudeness. Mr. Sung upstairs, for instance, might rank at four out of ten in friendliness. He nods approvingly when the dogs I happen to be walking are well behaved, but he will audibly give a sniff of disapproval when they’re yapping while he’s squinting at some figures on his phone.

The Anish family on the fifth floor also isn’t friendly. Two out of ten. I don’t hold it against them; it’s not in their nature to be neighborly. Curt head nods are all you’ll get from them. There’s something comforting about running into them in the lobby: no expectation of chitchat.

The Pennebakers toe that thin line between courteous and friendly. It depends on the day they’re having.

Until very recently, I would have qualified Chantale only as “professionally courteous,” as if there was an HR department recording all our interactions. Six out of ten.