Is there a reason the word voyeur is French?

Do you remember the Hitchcock film “Rear Window”?  How the character played by Jimmy Stewart became obsessed with watching his neighbors while recuperating from an injury? I only ask because I worry that our Paris apartment is turning me into a voyeur.

Our living and dining areas look out onto an inner courtyard where many of the neighbors leave their blinds up long into the night.  Our apartment is only slightly better, with long string curtains—like beaded curtains, but lacking the beads—that provide only a modicum of privacy. So while we can see the neighbors, I’m sure they can see us too. I need to remember that.

Fortunately, unlike Jimmy Stewart, I don’t—yet—suspect any of them of murder. But while I was looking out the window on Saturday night, I saw several scenes play out, all within about five minutes.

Scene 1

The neighbor directly across from us leaned out of his window to smoke a cigarette. He disappeared back into the apartment.

His wife (?) and small son (?) sat down near the window to play a hand-slapping game. I couldn’t really see the mom—but the boy, who must have been about five, had dark hair in a style not unlike an early Beatles cut, and he was jumping about with abandon.

Then, an enormous black-and-white fluffy cat sauntered, in the way only cats can do, onto their small balcony to chew on some vegetation growing in a pot.

Meanwhile on the first floor, just above and to the right of the door was scene 2.

Scene 2

Another young man, probably in his thirties, leaned out of his window, also smoking a cigarette. (I hope they have smoke detectors in this building.)

While he was smoking, another young man and a woman greeted him.  He called down and waved them to come up. (It later became apparent he was having a party as more guests arrived. Though they didn’t wake me, I got up briefly at 1:30 a.m. and saw their lights were on and that people were still talking animatedly behind the window.)

Earlier in the evening, I saw another slice of life a floor lower and to the right of the couple with the child, which comprised scene 3.

Scene 3

At that window, a pretty Japanese woman (or Japanese French woman) with long dark hair was chopping (vegetables?) in her kitchen. As she chopped away, a man, whom I could only dimly see, moved behind her and embraced her.  She stopped chopping, turned around, pulled him close, and they kissed. I felt a little guilty having witnessed that private moment, but it made me happy.

Moments like that could make anyone a voyeur. (I hope I keep seeing her. I don’t need that kind of Rear Window moment.)  But I wonder if they sell binoculars at the Marchés aux Puces, the world’s largest flea market, which is held not far away every Saturday.  (I'm only kidding about that!)

Note: I originally posted a view from our window, but I deleted it, because I didn't want to worry our neighbors.