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Symphony of a City
The thumps come at 4:30 each morning. Da-dum, da-dum, da-dum. I count the bumps, 12 of them, one for each step as my neighbor Bridget wheels her oversized handcart from her second floor apartment to the courtyard below. From there, she rolls the cart to the garage prepping for another day as a paralegal. The heavy rusted security gate slams shut with a thunderous clank and once again I’m awake, ready for a new day.
As the sun rises, the finches appear, twittering in the large courtyard oak. Before long, wild parakeets arrive to scare away the finches with brash squawks. The crows are next, cackling as they dive bomb the parakeets.
The ambulance sirens start early, headed toward the nearby hospital on San Vicente Boulevard. On Thursdays, the recycling trucks arrive by 5:30 am shattering glass in their gaping maws. Friday brings the trash trucks, their pneumatic roars echoing off the thick alley walls.
I’ve always been a sonic soul, hypersensitive to sound. I detect the hum of overhead power lines and the faint buzzing of bees as they circle the jasmine bush outside my bedroom window. I catch snippets of conversation from across the room. I can hear car radios blaring or couples fighting from blocks away.
I’ve gotten to know my neighbors by their acoustic habits. Bridget sings lullabies at night to her corgi puppy. Anna repeats French…
