When Noise Hurts

Noise!

For most of my life, I have struggled to repress what I have always considered to be a particularly sensitive reaction to it. I have no doubt that leaf blowers annoy everyone. A low-flying jet, a nearby freeway, a barking dog--we all have the buttons that get pushed by these intrusions.

As I said, I realize I may have a heightened stress response to noise, and that most people can withstand it well past the limits that cause me to tremble. I no longer think there is something wrong with me because of this, but I do recognize that everyone doesn't feel overwhelmed by noise the way I do.

Still, I'll bet I can name one thing that will drive you nuts no matter how much noise you believe you can tolerate, the one surefire provocation that gets to everyone I know and probably most people I do not know.

I'm talking about automobile speaker systems that could power the Hollywood Bowl if they weren't instead crammed into the trunk and back seat of a pulsating Chevrolet.

I have recently, and for the first time, moved into an elegant downtown condominium. It has a chic and urban feel inside with its slick surfaces and dark hardwood floors. A wrap-around deck provides a spectacular view of Seattle--I see Lake Union, Elliott Bay, the skyline, and, of course, our iconic Space Needle. It is like fairyland at night.

There are garden issues here for me, which I will not go into now. There are a few minor inconveniences: I have to walk the mighty poodle several times a day instead of opening a door and letting him outside; I have to use an elevator all the time, even to take out the trash; I can sometimes smell cigarette smoke from passers-by down on the sidewalk.

But the worst and most painful and unanticipated problem I face is those heart-stopping sound system-mobiles that for some reason constantly drive the east-west street a block away from where I live and still manage to shake the Chihuly.

Like members of any other narrow interest group, sound system aficionados apparently have no understanding that others are not enchanted. In a way, I can see this, because I share a certain incredulity of my own: I don't know why everyone else isn't moved to rapture by the arts of the Mughal Empire.

But I don't stuff the ears of non-fans with miniature paintings the way car-stereo freaks stuff mine with noise.

Isn't there a principle involved here? The one that says your freedom ends where it comes into contact with mine? And isn't the word compromise designed to negotiate the politics of the border?

It's clear the owners of these vehicles don't care about anyone else's choices or sensitivities. Every time they put the key in the ignition, it is an act of aggression. I'm afraid to tell them I don't like their noise because they terrify me--and it goes on unabated, as no one else seems able or willing to do anything about it, either.

This unchanging fact tears at me in the same way the noise does, and I cannot seem to come to terms with the barbarians, in my mind or in the street.

I've decided I'm not a condominium person after all. I'm more the house-and-garden-away-from-the-busy-street person I always was before I came to believe that this condo thing was a necessary next step at my age.

Bah. The noise lovers can have the city. I'm going home. My grown children may get nervous and think I'm a bird in flight--moving again will take some explaining--but I know my nest when I see it.

And a condo in the sky above the racket of the city isn't it.