I sit just inside the third floor balcony, door open.  It’s a good place in the mornings before the sun reaches the glass walls of this room, still cool from the nighttime dip in temperature.  Being up so high, I catch the breeze that slowly sways the tall, thin cypress trees lining the back wall of  the yard.  In the garden are two deciduous trees whose branches spread out and shade the entire area.  One is a jacaranda tree, just beginning to bloom and already dropping bits of purple blossoms to the ground.  The perfume of the tree is unmistakable up at this level.  Bougainvillea vines climb along the garden wall and up the houses’ back side.  The flowers spill over the balcony railing.  More purple.  Red bougainvillea is further back in the yard.  Some of the vines are entwined with the cypress and their bursts of blossoms high in the trees are surprising.  A bird chirps rhythmically.  Occasionally a hummingbird zooms to the balcony bougainvillea and hovers for a moment.  I only see one hummingbird at a time, which makes this seems like a single bird who alone shows up for these particular flowers.  He’s slightly larger than the hummingbirds I have seen in other places.

The properties on either side of the house are larger and encircle us as an island.  Clear views of them are difficult to get.  One is a hotel of small villas, the other is a long driveway with a modern house of large glass windows and a garage set back behind the line of cypress trees.  Even from the rooftop garden, I see very little detail of these places.  What I know of them is gathered from snippets of sound.  The gardener’s blower is busy there every morning, keeping the hotel grounds beautiful I assume, and late each afternoon I hear the tones of a child’s happy voice asking questions.   A quad-runner vehicle goes up and down the long driveway and waits, idling, for the gate to the street to swing open.

On late Wednesday afternoons, a boxing lesson occurs under the trees to the right of the garden wall.  From the sounds I hear, it appears to be two young men being instructed by an older male.  I cannot translate the Spanish that I hear, but the overheard slapping sounds, grunts, and general excitement led me to believe it was boxing.  This was confirmed one day when I strained to look over the balcony for a view.  I had thought I was hearing the pounding of a punching bag, but saw instead one person wearing boxing gloves punching into another person’s widespread mitts, both moving around in the grass.  There is much encouragement going on to make intimidating sounds while punching.  Quite entertaining, actually.

The intermittent crowing of a rooster, the bleating of goats, and the occasional sound that might be a donkey carry over the neighborhood.  Around midday I hear the far away sounds of a marching band practice.  Mostly drums and trumpets.  I wonder where they are located and what they are practicing for.  Or perhaps it is not a practice session and instead everyday I am missing a performance somewhere.

Of course I hear traffic as well.  Perched high on a hill, above the town below, with an unobstructed view in the distance of a main road that encircles the city, the sound of big rigs and Jake brakes carry across the distance and reach me along with the crowing of the neighborhood rooster.  The sounds of the many buses on the main road outside our front door also intrude, but most of our doors and windows open onto the back, so we can pretend (sometimes) that we are not in the thick of the city.