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
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