At first I thought it'd be pleasant, motivating, even peaceful to hear the hustle of the city below me as I awoke every morning.
Then came the blood-curling screams.
My roommates and I had a prime view from our dorm window, where we gathered and watched as the NYPD detained the clearly intoxicated girl who had lost her cool. Transfixed for nearly an hour, we could not tear our eyes away as the scene unfolded 30 feet below us.
The view outside my humble abode a.k.a. NYU's Third North dormitory.
The honking, on the other hand, is never ending. I have a theory, New York, that your drivers live in constant fear that the horn in the middle of their steering wheel has stopped working, so they have to double check. Every. Five. Seconds. Then there are the sirens. I get that there are a lot of noises on the streets of Union Square, but is it really necessary to have shrills that reach the 192nd decibel in order to be heard?
Throughout the summer, your incessant noise outside my window became background music to everything I did.
At first, I would lie in bed at night, pining for a pair of earplugs and the post-9 p.m. silence of my suburban hometown. Your city streets and city slickers woke me at the crack of dawn, refusing to relinquish my attention to the sleep I so desperately wanted. But then, something changed.
As I became more and more acclimated to the city, your sounds began to sooth. Lying in my childhood bed during a weekend trip to small-town PA, I was unnerved by the quiet. It was too quiet. I missed the constant buzzing outside my window that reminded me that that I was spending my summer in one of the most exciting cities in the world.
So, New York and all your accompanying noise, I think we’ll be friends—unless you decide to wake me up again at 6 a.m. with your obnoxious sirens.
All my love,
Written by Lindsey Murray, Temple University, Real Simple
Edited by Russell Willoughby, The University of Alabama, This Old House