sonidos de la ciudad

When the wind moves (which it does constantly), the corrugated plastic sheets covering the bars at the back of the house rattle like machine-gun fire, sometimes even early in the morning before the turkeys start babbling amongst themselves and the geese honk themselves hoarse. A chorus of yelps and barks echoes back and forth throughout the day...the cute pair of weiner-dogs across from us do so rather ferociously whenever I walk past their gated garage. On the daily route to the parada (bus stop) my sandals flap against the uneven pavement and the power lines smack together in the breeze, like someone idly snapping his fingers. I notice a featherweight tapping on the lenses of my sunglasses when a particularly gritty whirlwind brushes by; and the dirt leaves my heavily-sunscreened face and arms slightly stickier. On the street, cars and buses stream past, belching filthy clouds of exhaust, beeping to catch the attention of other drivers or any random woman who happens to be walking down the sidewalk. And they don't just beep. Any "macha" (and Ticas too, who have fortunately learned to ignore them completely) is subjected to "piropos" of various kinds: whistles, cat calls, and "sssp sssp sssp" (directed only towards English-speaking women, who apparently hiss alot when speaking). (And there's a bird here that whistles almost like some of the men do--bizarre.) The brake on the bus screeches peircingly, followed by a loud blast of air at each stop. And of course, the embracing envelope of Spanish everywhere I go: the quick, laughing chatter amongst classmates, the lazy mumblings of abuelas and older women, slurry banter between guys--who manage to say "mae" (dude) about 5 times per sentence--, the hum of a crowd in the mercado central. I've never lived in a city before. But I feel fairly comfortable here in Heredia, even amongst sounds that are not yet my own.