Calling Santa Monica – and my own corner of Wilshire – ‘home’ means learning to sleep through 3 a.m. mail trucks, overhead flights and constant police sirens. It’s too nice out to close the windows.

But no matter, noise engulfs you here: neighbors cheering at TV football games; seagulls canvasing the parking lot for forgotten scraps; chihuahuas yapping and hummingbirds buzzing and brassy car horns signaling a missed yellow light.

Sensory overload, a boom box compared to the silence of my last location. Right now, loud is what I love about the place.

Santa Monica postcard image: Wikimedia Commons