Muffled shouts in the courtyard drew me to the window. Two guys wrestled a bulky object wrapped in blue mover's quilts and rope. They'd move it a few inches, set it down and reconsider. It took 10 minutes to get whatever it was to the bottom of the stairs. I was tempted to open the door to get a better look, but decided it might be smarter to keep my still-pajama'd self inside my own apartment and let the nice men do their work. That hallway is tight enough if you're just carting up boxes of books. They weren't arguing – their voices were more thoughtful, though I couldn't make out the words. Was the weight of the thing what slowed them down – or just figuring out how to navigate the 8 steps up to the landing and the 8 steps after? And then I remembered: A week earlier, the new neighbors had shown up early one morning. Having driven all night from New York City, they were in a hurry to unload the rental car and turn it in before they'd be charged for another day. Their realtor – who had the only key – was nowhere to be found. So they emptied all they'd crammed into the car onto that corner of the courtyard nearest their entrance. A pile of guitar cases, rolled-up carpets, boxes – and a fat-bellied black case we soon learned held an antique oud – spread across the walkway as if it had fallen from the sky. They'd just been hired by different colleges to teach music, said he – tall, with dark curls and deep laugh lines. He made conversation while she – petite, sun-colored hair – sped off to return the car. Guitar was his specialty; piano was hers. "But we won't make much noise," he said with a laugh, as if to ward off potential complaints. We begged him to reconsider. The moving-in would happen in stages, he said. Last to arrive would be his wife's piano. When it arrived, I was a thin wooden door away from all the excitement. But not, it turned out, without a view. Though I've yet to see the piano without its thick layer of blue quilt, it sounds from here as if it couldn't be happier.