Cities are noisy. Really noisy. I’ve lived in a few. All noisy.
In their own way, the noises are irritating, welcoming, warm, annoying, nerve-grinding, magical… well, you get the idea. Noise is… stuff. Until two years ago I had only endured Canadian noise. It’s different than Dominican noise. More polite and contained.
It was the night noise is Sosua. These assholes would be driving around, likely going home from the pub or a party on those Quads. Kill-Me-Now, those are awful. At three or four in the morning, even worse. The Quad would go by, loud enough to set off car alarms and then all the Street Dogs would start going. Then the Roosters.
Here, in Santo Domingo, I actually still hear that noise, the Dogs and motorbikes, and Roosters. But it’s a big City. Lot of people and the building I live in is very loud. Music. Talking. Kids. Screaming. Kids screaming. Adults screaming. Dogs barking. Sometimes I can’t even tell the difference between the babies and the Chihuahuas. High-pitched, brain-burrowing, Mind-piercing noise.
The couple directly downstairs from me have a newborn and a toddler. In the morning, they plop the newborn into a highchair on the balcony and give the toddler a drum or tin xylophone and then go for a smoke and put the kettle on or who knows what they do. All I know is, I Hate It.
The lady beside me comes out on her balcony at least once a day and screams down her telephone for upwards to an hour. Almost always irritating. The people below here are new and they sit and yap on the balcony almost constantly. Late hours, little radio or CD player blasting. The rest of the tenants don’t do anything except shut their windows. Pfft! Quitters!
Not having had children I’m sure the same sound that burrows into my braid and makes me want to hit things is like music to its mother’s ears. Music that sounds like shooting bullets up a drainpipe.
No one actually seems to mind. Or at least, they don’t say so. I do. I shout from my balcony . Shout things like, Bag! Rocks! River!
Living noises are great. Dishes, chatting, phones ringing, cooking. It’s a safety-in-numbers kind of pleasant I really like. Spanish music, my neighbours practicing the piano or violin are really soothing, even when she plays Christmas Carols in June.
But the kids! Oh, the screamy, shouty, sticky, whiny, spoilt little bastard children.
I’ll use that on my notice to vacate. Yes. That’ll work just fine.