Here I am, luxuriating in the quiet dark of way-past-midnight, a quiet that includes sounds I've missed for the past two years. Crickets, cicadas, peepers clicking and whirring like a summer's heartbeat.My tenth floor apartment was next to the elevator banks and its windows faced the building's HVAC system. The daily and nightly aural assault included ambulance sirens, barking dogs, and the ominous thrum of police helicopter blades.
The city soundscape never did become as ambient as I hoped it would. Truth to tell, it was jarring and exhausting. I bought earplugs by the dozen, wore them at night and sometimes during the day.
Now, despite being revved up on unpacking and nesting at warp speed, I can feel myself starting to unwind. Walking around this neighborhood feels strangely familiar, even though it's new to me. Our townhouse feels strangely familiar, even though we just moved in.
Where am I? What year is this?
