A new one!
https://meemselle.wordpress.com/
033119
The Ruido Rant
Yes. "Ruido." Spanish for "noise."
I may have only a Few Words, but I have a lot of noise. And I'm not just referring to the voices in my head. I have actual, conversation-stopping, relentless noise in my home.
My dedicated followers will recall that I moved about six months ago from the Mango Penthouse because of a rat infestation that was not addressed by my landlord. In my quest for Dominicana status, I ride gua-guas and practice mouth ballet on a regular basis. But living with rats: I couldn't face it, Gentle Readers. I'm just not there yet.
So when I found a lovely one-bedroom apartment, also in central Sosúa, from which the landlady was more than willing to remove the furniture to accommodate mine, I jumped. The alacrity with which the landlady offered to remove the furniture should have been a sign. It turns out I jumped, alas, too quickly.
My apartment is located at the corner of one of the busiest parts of Autopista 5 as it rolls through Sosúa. My view includes the police station parking lot, the Texaco, and Funeraria Blas Blass. The apartment is on the third floor. It boasts gorgeous wood cathedral ceilings, a pool, an adequate kitchen, an automatic washing machine, a terrace, and a bathtub. A tub is a big deal in this country. Dominicans apparently have not mastered the art of getting in and out of one, and plus, you have only so much hot water in your heater.
On paper it sounds fabu, doesn't it?
Let me give you one word of advice, Darlinos. Before you take on new lodgings, INSIST on sleeping there for two nights before you sign a contract. Buy yourself a cot and a sleeping bag and save them for just such an occasion. This being along the lines of "if I had known then what I know now...." which is neither productive advice nor productive thinking.
Girding my loins and gritting my teeth, I have done a fair amount of entertaining here. It always seems such a lovely idea to sit on the terrace before dinner, sipping (OK, chugging Prosecco) and nibbling (OK, scarfing down) salted almonds. So civilized. So charming.
One would think.
In fact, it is an ordeal which my most devoted guests have learned barely to endure, which may go a long way towards explaining why the Prosecco gets chugged and the almonds get devoured so that we can get inside and close the French doors to block out the overwhelming rudio.
We're not talking a few errant crowing roosters or a barking dog here. We are talking thousands of moto-conchos, taxis, gua-guas, cars, personal motorcycles, lots and lots of heavy duty trucks and a traffic cop whom I believe was born with a whistle in his mouth. And Dominicans are in love with their horns. Good Lord, are they in love with their horns!
In a way that's a good thing, especially should you take leave of your senses and decide to drive here. Horns take the place of directional signals. Horns take the place of brakes. Horns take the place of driving sober.
The constant cacophony of horns is like hearing Steve Reich's music for the first time. Except that Steve Reich, don't forget, writes it down. The sheer randomness of Dominican horn-honking is what sets---and keeps---your teeth on edge. There's no rhyme or reason to it. Buzzy little bikes, misfiring mufflers, screeching tires, grinding gears, the bellow of enormous semi's pulling incessantly on the horn, with the continuous shrill counterpoint of the whistling policeman: well, it makes your ears bleed.
I have omitted the cherry on top, however, and this is the volume at which music is played in private vehicles. Dominicans are a highly hospitable people, and they are more than willing to share their car music. With everyone. Even if it were my taste in music (which it most assuredly is NOT), I don't need to hear it blasting from the open windows of a passing car at a volume specially designed to insure deafness in approximately 5 hours. Think of the C train coming into the Museum of Natural History stop, and you're close. This must be why Dominicans yell all the time.
In fact, it is because of ruido that I have been up since 4 a.m. Yes, OK, it was Saturday night so one expects---and in fact, celebrates---your neighbors having a good time, knocking back a few beers, and listening to some music.
But try going to sleep. In fact, I have more or less adjusted my sleeping schedule so that I go to bed at about 4 a.m. when the noise abates somewhat, waking up at noon, when every self-respecting Dominican heads out for lunch, a journey which is sacrosanct, requiring the use of a vehicle, ideally driven at top horn volume because you don't want to get out for lunch and find out the habichuelas are cold.
It is now 7 a.m. and because it is Sunday, it is relatively quiet. In fact, I'm enjoying the roosters. Time for bed.
https://meemselle.wordpress.com/
033119
The Ruido Rant
Yes. "Ruido." Spanish for "noise."
I may have only a Few Words, but I have a lot of noise. And I'm not just referring to the voices in my head. I have actual, conversation-stopping, relentless noise in my home.
My dedicated followers will recall that I moved about six months ago from the Mango Penthouse because of a rat infestation that was not addressed by my landlord. In my quest for Dominicana status, I ride gua-guas and practice mouth ballet on a regular basis. But living with rats: I couldn't face it, Gentle Readers. I'm just not there yet.
So when I found a lovely one-bedroom apartment, also in central Sosúa, from which the landlady was more than willing to remove the furniture to accommodate mine, I jumped. The alacrity with which the landlady offered to remove the furniture should have been a sign. It turns out I jumped, alas, too quickly.
My apartment is located at the corner of one of the busiest parts of Autopista 5 as it rolls through Sosúa. My view includes the police station parking lot, the Texaco, and Funeraria Blas Blass. The apartment is on the third floor. It boasts gorgeous wood cathedral ceilings, a pool, an adequate kitchen, an automatic washing machine, a terrace, and a bathtub. A tub is a big deal in this country. Dominicans apparently have not mastered the art of getting in and out of one, and plus, you have only so much hot water in your heater.
On paper it sounds fabu, doesn't it?
Let me give you one word of advice, Darlinos. Before you take on new lodgings, INSIST on sleeping there for two nights before you sign a contract. Buy yourself a cot and a sleeping bag and save them for just such an occasion. This being along the lines of "if I had known then what I know now...." which is neither productive advice nor productive thinking.
Girding my loins and gritting my teeth, I have done a fair amount of entertaining here. It always seems such a lovely idea to sit on the terrace before dinner, sipping (OK, chugging Prosecco) and nibbling (OK, scarfing down) salted almonds. So civilized. So charming.
One would think.
In fact, it is an ordeal which my most devoted guests have learned barely to endure, which may go a long way towards explaining why the Prosecco gets chugged and the almonds get devoured so that we can get inside and close the French doors to block out the overwhelming rudio.
We're not talking a few errant crowing roosters or a barking dog here. We are talking thousands of moto-conchos, taxis, gua-guas, cars, personal motorcycles, lots and lots of heavy duty trucks and a traffic cop whom I believe was born with a whistle in his mouth. And Dominicans are in love with their horns. Good Lord, are they in love with their horns!
In a way that's a good thing, especially should you take leave of your senses and decide to drive here. Horns take the place of directional signals. Horns take the place of brakes. Horns take the place of driving sober.
The constant cacophony of horns is like hearing Steve Reich's music for the first time. Except that Steve Reich, don't forget, writes it down. The sheer randomness of Dominican horn-honking is what sets---and keeps---your teeth on edge. There's no rhyme or reason to it. Buzzy little bikes, misfiring mufflers, screeching tires, grinding gears, the bellow of enormous semi's pulling incessantly on the horn, with the continuous shrill counterpoint of the whistling policeman: well, it makes your ears bleed.
I have omitted the cherry on top, however, and this is the volume at which music is played in private vehicles. Dominicans are a highly hospitable people, and they are more than willing to share their car music. With everyone. Even if it were my taste in music (which it most assuredly is NOT), I don't need to hear it blasting from the open windows of a passing car at a volume specially designed to insure deafness in approximately 5 hours. Think of the C train coming into the Museum of Natural History stop, and you're close. This must be why Dominicans yell all the time.
In fact, it is because of ruido that I have been up since 4 a.m. Yes, OK, it was Saturday night so one expects---and in fact, celebrates---your neighbors having a good time, knocking back a few beers, and listening to some music.
But try going to sleep. In fact, I have more or less adjusted my sleeping schedule so that I go to bed at about 4 a.m. when the noise abates somewhat, waking up at noon, when every self-respecting Dominican heads out for lunch, a journey which is sacrosanct, requiring the use of a vehicle, ideally driven at top horn volume because you don't want to get out for lunch and find out the habichuelas are cold.
It is now 7 a.m. and because it is Sunday, it is relatively quiet. In fact, I'm enjoying the roosters. Time for bed.
