By Pranav Mehta

Diplomacy is, at its core, the noble art of pretending you like the people who drive you insane. At SIPA, we are trained to solve the world’s greatest conflicts—wars, economic crises, the occasional “accidental” tweet from a world leader. But for all our learning, we rarely address the most pervasive conflict of modern urban life: the battle between you and your upstairs neighbor, a rogue state whose primary export is noise pollution.

To call them a “neighbor” is, of course, a diplomatic nicety. A more accurate term might be unilateral aggressor. By day, they maintain an unassuming public presence—smiling in the hallway, exchanging pleasantries about local weather patterns. By night, they transform into a fully operational disruption machine. It begins with the innocuous 11PM rinse-and-spin cycle, when their washing machine casually prepares for liftoff. Shortly after, they engage in competitive curling, dragging chairs across what can only be seven acres of hardwood floor. You tell yourself the rhythmic thuds soothe you to sleep, but they sound like a lullaby written by someone who has never actually heard a lullaby. Now, one might ask: how does a seasoned diplomat, skilled in navigating geopolitical landmines, approach such a crisis? I’m glad you asked. 

Step One is to initiate Track Two Diplomacy: the awkward elevator conversation. This is where you mention, ever so casually, that you've “noticed some sounds lately,” with the same nonchalance one might use when referencing volcanic eruptions. They will, of course, deny everything. “Oh, that?”, they say, “Must have been the wind.” Clearly, their apartment is subject to the kind of atmospheric phenomena typically only experienced on Jupiter.

When all polite diplomacy has failed and your negotiation skills have been met with classic active avoidance (ghosting), it’s time to activate Step Two: escalation to the super. This third-party negotiator will likely respond to your plea with vague promises like “I’ll look into it” or the ever-popular “I’ll swing by tomorrow,” which, in super-speak, means “I will absolutely never think about this again.” The Super’s tactical approach is designed to provide you with the illusion of progress while, in reality, the upstairs wrestling match continues unabated. Much like expecting a peacekeeping force to resolve a neighborhood barbecue dispute, invoking the super is mostly a symbolic gesture, meant to show that you’ve exhausted all reasonable options. Don’t be fooled. The midnight bouts will continue.

When diplomacy, mediation, and polite threats have failed, you must consider the nuclear option,. something simple yet psychologically devastating: a polite invitation to coffee. That’s right—nothing unhinges an upstairs neighbor quite like being faced with direct, in-person interaction in a casual setting. The goal here is not necessarily to forge a friendship, but rather to create a healthy dose of social anxiety in your neighbor, ensuring that they will think twice before assembling their brand-new BLÅRGTHUNK, a shelving unit that requires at least four hours, three workers, two mallets and a full blown existential crisis. After all, nothing says “I respect your personal space” like constructing a monument to Swedish minimalism at midnight. Who knows? Once they’ve endured a two hour conversation about El Niño phases over a tepid mug of Folgers, the BLÅRGTHUNK may continue resting in its flat-pack grave.

Pranav Mehta, CFA (MIA '26) is an International Finance and Economic Policy student. He holds a B.S. in Electrical Engineering from New York University Abu Dhabi.