Noise in the City

Upon finding out that we would be spending two months in Portugal, and possessing an unholy fascination with the written word, Matt and I immediately read through every travel book published on Lisbon. Many of them disagreed: some said the shopping was divine, others said save the euros for Paris. Some claimed that food was exquisite and adventurous, while others could only summon up a lukewarm “unique” to describe the culinary attempts. There is one thing, though, that every book agreed upon: Lisbon was noisy. And it really, really is.

At first I just thought the cacophony pouring through the windows was there from the two bars within a 30 second walk from our apartment (honest, I didn’t know that beforehand). But then, it was there when I woke up in the morning, and when I returned in the afternoon, and when I fell asleep at night. Eventually I began to open my ears and listen, really hear what all this “noise” was.

It starts in the morning with the construction workers that arrive and begin to toss commands and tools up and down three flights of stairs. Then the windows on the street open, seemingly choreographed, as little old ladies assume their perch on the sill and begin chirping back and forth across the street. The dogs eventually join in, barking at cobblestones or pigeons, I’m not sure which. The funicular, or street tram, trundles it’s way up and down the street, it’s ringing bell subject to no schedule but the whim of the conductor. In the afternoon, the sunlight draws out the children whose yells echo up and down the long hill, as their soccer ball bounces against every wall on the street. At night, their parents come out and begin to circle the bars and restaurants alternating between shouted endearments and drunken singing. See, it’s not really noise, it’s everyday occurrences and greetings without the separation of public and private space, all bundled onto one tiny hill. In short, it’s life. Not noise, but life. Not insignificant sounds, but an entire existence of a people.

And so when we open the windows, life pours in from the streets and people below. Perhaps I should write to the travel books and tell them they got it wrong, but I would hate to make any noise.