Noise, in Five Parts

1. The barking dogs
2. Hispanic reality show
3. Shrieks from the beach
4. Music to my ears
5. The women on the terrace

1. The barking dogs
 
I hear them through my eleventh-story window during the late afternoon, barking at one another in the tiny dog park overlooking Biscayne Bay. I love the sound of their high-pitched yapping.

Small dogs of various breeds play together in the park, among them Coco Chanel, a chubby pug; Henry, a be-ribboned bichon; and Bailey, a sweet-tempered rescue mutt. I long to be there myself with my apricot toy poodle, Cosmo, affectionately known as Cosmo the Wonder Dog, Cosmolian, Cosmonello, and simply The Cos. But sadly, Cosmo is no longer with me, having been put to sleep in the summer of 2010 after a long and barky life.

Most of the dog owners who frequent the park remember Cosmo and gallantly invite me to join them within their noisy sanctum, where they quaff wine and throw squeaky balls for their dogs to fetch. While on my daily walk, I often stop outside the enclosure to chat with the owners and admire their pets, but I can't bring myself to enter without a dog of my own. Still, the sound of their barking is music to my ears.

2. Hispanic reality show
 
The other day, I noticed a blinding white light coming from one of the mansions across the water. I hoped it wasn't a new security feature. Then I noticed a number of tiny ant-like creatures moving across the patio. I fetched my binoculars and identified a film crew setting up around the pool.

The filming has mostly occurred at night, with atmospheric purple lights coloring the patio. A party scene, I surmised, maybe for an episode of Dexter. The idea that my favorite cable show, which is set in Miami, might be on location in my own backyard, thrilled me. Or perhaps they were filming scenes for CSI Miami or some other big-budget TV drama.

During my walk yesterday, I spied one of the members of the dog-owner brigade, wine glass in hand. He seems to know everything that's going on, so I hoped he might have an idea what the filming was about. Sure enough, he did. "They're filming a reality show," he said, "for Hispanic TV."

I felt disappointed—since I don't watch Spanish-language television, I would likely never see the results of the filming. But I was also intrigued. Would the film crew move in for a year-long reality extravaganza, something along the lines of Las Amas de Casa Reales de Miami? Or would the activity across the water be short-lived?

Yesterday evening, I saw more people on the mansion's patio than during any past night of filming. Soon, the crowd began cheering, their noise rising to a crescendo for a minute or so, then falling off. Rising, then falling again and again. Funny for a while, then mildly irritating. Hopefully, last night was the show's finale and the cheering its noisy climax.

3. Shrieks from the beach
 
Have I mentioned that I'm sensitive to noise? If it's my noise, generated by me or by my radio or TV, that's fine. But the noise of others feels like an invasion. I realize how lucky I am, living on a beautiful island that's mostly peaceful and quiet. When noise does disrupt the serenity, I would like to be oblivious, to adopt a live-and-let-live attitude, yet that goal eludes me.

I have noise machines and white noise apps on my iPad and iPhone. I have earplugs. But I resent having to resort to white noise, which has its own jarring effects, and the earplugs hurt my ears. Besides, nothing really works, partly because I can usually still hear the noise, but also because it's not merely the noise that bothers me, but the unpredictability of it. I find the barking dogs in my condo's dog park cute, but I know that the barking only occurs for a little while at the same time each day. If suddenly dogs were barking at 2 a.m., I wouldn't find it so endearing.

On a recent Saturday evening, I heard shrieks from the little beach next to the dog park. I walked onto my terrace to get a better look. A group of women had gathered on the beach. One would speak and the others would shriek and burst into peals of laughter. It seemed a happy occasion, maybe a bridal shower or a birthday celebration. Why should I be upset? I reminded myself that the women weren't playing rap music or dancing to a loud salsa beat. I couldn't bring myself to complain to security about a bunch of women laughing and enjoying themselves. Still, they were shrieking. And they continued shrieking. I wondered if they would ever stop. They finally did, around midnight.

4. Music to my ears
 
I may be sensitive to the noise of others, but I love to play my own music LOUD. Years ago, in his most inspired gift, E. gave me the complete Motown CD collection. Washing dishes was never more fun than while dancing to Marvin Gaye, Mary Wells, and the Temptations, played at full volume.

Later, when my son, Alex, was a teenager, he would burn mix CDs for me as gifts. I always favored bands that used a heavy bass beat. I loved the Dandy Warhols. I would crank the music up so loud that even my kids would ask me to turn it down.

Now that I spend half the year in an apartment, I don't blast my music while I'm there. I don't want to bother my neighbors, nor do I want to give them any reason to turn their music up. Adele's hits wouldn't sound nearly as good coming through my walls from someone else's apartment as they do when I'm playing them myself.

5. The women on the terrace
 
As I work at my desk, I become aware of a slight disturbance, a whispery sensation. I stop typing and listen. Voices, women's voices, coming from nearby. I open the sliding glass door next to my desk, which leads to my apartment terrace. Yes, I can hear two women talking on the terrace above me. Brijean, with her lilting Irish accent, is one of them. The other woman must be a visiting friend or relative. It's late, after 11 p.m. With my door closed, I can barely hear them, but I know they're there.

I tell myself that they don't mean to disturb me. I know Brijean and like her. I turn on the noise machine that sits on the corner of my desk. Now I can't hear them at all. But I keep trying, straining to detect a laugh or a raised voice through the white noise. I turn the machine off for a second just to check whether they're still out there. Yes.

It's not the admittedly-soft sound of their voices that bothers me. It's the fact that I have no control over them. I can't make them stop the way I can turn off my loud music when I've had enough. In any case, I wouldn't want to try. I hate confrontation. I just want my own soundproof space, one that keeps unwanted noise out and my own chosen sounds in. Maybe a padded cell?