The Calmness of City Pulse

A year and a half ago, I went with my husband to Daytona BiketoberFest. We stayed in one of the tall hotels on the beach. We cruised the streets, had a few bites and a few more drinks, danced, sang our hearts out, people watched (and any Bike Fest is GREAT for that) and tipsy, came back to the hotel room. We talked on the terrace and listened to the bikes revving bellow, sounds of engines meshed with rolling waves and the wind. Leaving the terrace door open, we went to bed.

Laying in bed, I felt my body relax. I forgot that sense of familiarity. Everything is in place. I haven’t felt so relaxed since I moved to the States two and a half years prior.

And then, my husband got up and closed the door while complaining about the noise, interrupting my zen.

Before I moved, I lived on a busy street, parallel to one of two river walks in the city, packed with clubs and cafes and restaurants overlooking the water. And everyone was up for an exciting ride afterwards, so anyone living in the area could have easily counted horsepower passing by at 3 am. It was a weekly, if not nightly occurrence.

Oh, the lovely squeaks of busses pulling up to their stop, the sounds of their doors opening, the first cable cars passing by at 5 in the morning.

The beautiful noise of the city landscape. (Yes, I am diving deep into Carrie Bradshaw - city is my date moment, please forgive me)

Possibly the best musical representation of urban environment is Manhattan Suite by contemporary composer Francesco di Fiore, written for 4 hands on a piano, in three movements - he lets us experience New York, through three different perspectives and three different times of the day, and with it all the ups and downs of living in the human ant farm equivalent.

I moved and lived in a house for the first time (instead of an apartment), both the house and the backyard just the right size, in soon to be historic district, full of old trees merging their crowns over the fences and roofs, close to the river, and within walking distance of a beautiful and spacious park. (I would sometimes be afraid that my dog would end up being Alligator food, seeing how eager he was to jump in the river, but that’s not the point.)

Amongst all that subtropical beauty, I missed the background hum of the city . All my favorite music was the one that made sense of that noise. Or incorporated it somehow. The one that makes you the star of your own story, while you stand in a full bus, trying to forecast who’s elbow is heading towards your kidney so you can dodge it promptly. (bad karma)

Long time ago, while attempting to learn tango, the instructor passionately talked about tango dancing nights (milongas). Couples dance in clockwise direction (mostly) trying not to invade too much of each other's space. As the night goes everyone is slowly entering their flow, he said, but the best time comes at 3-4am. When the city is asleep.

As a regular Jane, with a regular job, I am still lamenting the warm comfort of the quiet night with good music, and a book that makes you wonder in between pages. And as an 80s kid, the proper midnight playlist comes with at least one bluesy selection (anybody remember young Bruce Willis playing trumpet sitting in a window in Moonlighting?).

Let me take you to the musical memory lane...

I used to play this thing on repeat when I was twelve (this one and just a handful of others from the Pure Jazz Moods 2 CD - on a Sony portable CD player of course - especially during the 18 hour bus ride to Greece with my family over spring break) and it is perhaps the only thing from Lee Ritenour I know, but I can easily recognize his sound anytime. The spy-ish atmosphere reminds me of long walks by the river, the calm, the breeze, the sense of possibilities, the sense of perspective. Music just makes sense.

I do wonder, as I am writing this - am I just confusing sensuality for zen and relaxation? Though they seem inseparable somehow.

And while talking about the love for the city, songs that I listened hundreds of times at different points in my life had taken me to the one (and perhaps the one that is closest to the word "Zen") that is an epitome of the sound of the mountains. (Anything from Clannad is a treat - for all those that loved Enya)

But let me conclude this by us back to my beloved hectic environment.

We finish our nightly travel in Mexico, thanks to the composer Arturo Marquez. Imagine yourself dancing on colorful streets without a care in the world (maybe a drop of nostalgia). Every day is better after that vision.