There are mysterious noises being made outside of my office window; crackles and rustles and I’m half-convinced that someone is crawling around on the roof, looking for ways to climb inside the house and kill me before going on some kind of crazy looting rampage (If this is true, by the way, feel free to take the box of the foot of the stairs; we’ve not been the greatest about unpacking everything recently, so you can pretend it’s brand new. Because, you know, it pretty much is). There’s more than every chance that it’s just squirrels climbing around in the tree, but this is something that I’m still struggling to get my head around here in Portland: The background noise.
I was spoiled - and not in a good way - by the last place in San Francisco, in the sunset and surrounded by almost no natural greenery for a few blocks in any direction (Admittedly, Golden Gate Park was three blocks to our right as you walked out the front door, which almost made up for it, but still) and almost entirely devoid of any passers-by. It was a quiet neighborhood, to say the least; if you could ignore the (ir)regular sound of the N Judah going past every now and then, then the only thing you’d hear would be the arguments of the people living around the corner from us.
Not so Portland, and especially not the neighborhood I’m sitting in right now, typing these words. We’re surrounded by trees - cherry trees, apple trees, and even a ginkgo-baloba - and by friendly neighbors. We’re visited by squirrels and dogs and cats, and even a raccoon, the other night. And, as much as I love it - and I really, really do - it still makes me nervous, hearing things go bump, crack and rustle in the night, and not knowing exactly what’s making that happen.
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Content © Graeme McMillan, 2008-2009.
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