The Sounds of our Lives

Well, if you find a note tonight that sounds good, play the same damn note every night!

Count Basie

When I came to Spain two weeks ago, I expected certain differences to my American lifestyle. The experience of different places is why most of us travel, after all. So, I eagerly anticipated my immersion in a different culture, looking forward to experiencing differences in food, culture, smells, language and sights.

And because at the heart of my wander-lusting soul, I am also a homebody who loves to revel in my own backyard, I steeled myself for the possibility that these experiences would, from time to time, make me yearn for the comforting and familiar routines of my North Denver home. Sure enough, the greater part of my trip here has been spent with my mouth agape. An ancient Roman ruin, the dazzling display of ceramic tile that is ubiquitous here, the glorious Mediterranean Sea or the way the women run around the “Supermarcardo” randomly throwing groceries into their carts while never breaking the cadence in their chatter all add to both the delight and the strangeness of my new surroundings.

One thing I hadn’t given much thought to, however, was the sounds of my environment and how they would differ so much from what I am used to. A few days ago, I was wandering around the town center of Nerja, where we are staying. I was on my way to meet my honey at the Balcon de Europa (the “Balcony of Europe” the appropriately-named overlook in the center of town which allows breathtaking views of the sea and is an easy-to-find meeting spot). I was mentally congratulating myself, as for the first time since my arrival, I had not lost my way in this beautiful city of winding streets and look-alike whitewashed houses and was ambling contentedly toward our rendezvous spot. As I passed by the doorstep of one of the immaculate little homes, a local woman (presumably the occupant of said house) came out behind me and planted her plastic bucket on the sidewalk in preparation for washing her tile. As she released the bucket’s handle, it fell off to the side, as they inevitably do, and the subsequent “plop” of the metal handle striking the plastic rim of the bucket made me jerk my head around involuntarily. I realized that sound was probably the first one I’d heard all day that was familiar to me. Anyone who’s ever washed a floor or their car knows the sound of the handle hitting the side of the bucket as it flops over upon release. You might not be cognizant of it, but you know the sound.

It gave me pause. How accustomed we become to the sounds of our everyday life without giving them a second thought. I began to recall the everyday sounds of my “regular” life in Denver—the traffic on Sheridan Blvd., the whoosh of my furnace, the hum of my computer, the sound of my printer as it spits out yet another wedding ceremony. A little more mental probing and I conjured up the sound of the creak in the wood floor in my kitchen just inside the back door, my washing machine as it fills. The sounds of the running of the shower, my gas fireplace and my dishwasher all came to mind, as did the distinctive ring of my cell phone, the “ka-ching” sound as I make an entry in QuickBooks, the cooing of pigeons on my roof, the sound of Jeremy closing the back door and flipping the deadbolt. Contrasted with the sounds of Spain—the buzzing of scooters in the streets, the rattle of diesel car engines, my footsteps on tile, the wheel-clacking of the old ladies’ pull carts trundling over the cobblestones on the way to market, the rustling of palm fronds in the wind—all of these are as foreign to me as the language being spoken here. It was quite revealing to think about al the subtle sound differences and how they might affect my feelings at any given moment.

There are all kinds of cures put forth by those in the know. We hear of aromatherapy, feng shui, pet therapy, visual stimulation and the like. I wonder why we don’t do more with the benefits of “sound therapy”. The sounds of home—even those as simple as a handle slapping against its bucket--can be comforting. When I do begin to yearn for home, I plan to don my headset and Ipod and let the music of Carly, Joan, Bob, and the Indigo Girls sweep me into nostalgia, or call my 2-year old granddaughter and get her to request a “cooka” (cookie) or proudly tell me she was “play-nin” (playing) when I called.

Ah yes, I am blessed with these wonderful sounds of my life!