a service between neighbors

The roman shade on the back balcony door blew off a few days ago, during another afternoon of 'grosse vente' (big winds), and landed smack-dab in the groundfloor garden next door where a little old lady tends to her lavish plantings. Looking down three stories, over the railing--Yep, there it is: sad little thing crumpled on the ground. The shade didn't look too good either. Next day, she greeted us excitedly in the lane---"I have a strange beige piece of fabric! It's so dirty! Is it yours?" (At this point, we're so excited to have it back that I miss the full impact of her little comment.) "Yes, Yes!" She takes us into her house. IN. HER. HOUSE. Did I mention she's an elderly French lady? Her building is nearly an replica of our own. Only ours is 4 apartments. Hers is still one house. Loaded with original features. Like flocked and flowered wallpaper on every surface, including the ceiling--and I hadn't taken my Dramemine. The glimpse of the stairs down to the cave (basement larder) itself was a wonder: sausages hanging, wood barrels, corked bottles, all manner of things dried and preserved. But her husband was in the kitchen. Little Old French Lady continues to talk up a storm as we try to take in the hords of antiques, knick-knacks, doilies and general accumulation of more than fifty years. And that was just the hallway. I jump back to attention mid-sentence, translating when I can; but the gist is the gist of a thousand old lady nieghbor conversations world-over: prying. "The downstairs couple are Italian, aren't they? They only come on weekends, right?" and the kicker: "Which floor do you live on?" "Ah, you're the ones with the unfortunate plants! Tsk, Tsk!" Oh, yes, that would be us. The Nieghborhood Plant-Killers. Prediction: lugging home newly-purchased plants is in my future.