Espresso cups clink in their saucers, mopeds sputter down the alleyways, and scraps of conversation echo off the medieval brick buildings. A little boy shows off by naming all the colors he can see; elsewhere, a young woman angrily digs in her purse for her phone and vows to split someone's head open. And according to someone named Michele, rain is in the forecast.
I'm walking through the meandering streets of Siena, Italy, and the best way to enjoy my stroll is to listen.
Shoes scrape against the uneven stone streets as their owners bump into old friends. "Ehì, ciao! Come stai? Hey, hi! How are you?" They embrace, clapping each other on the back and excitedly sharing news.
Outside the library, the dominant sounds are those of a study break – quiet conversation, the click of lighters and the slow breaths of people inhaling tobacco. Nearby, a similar kind of click bursts out of tourists' cameras, while up the hill, a boy takes a clattering ride on his scooter down the cobblestones.
Little Siena lacks the roaring chaos of other cities; the wailing sirens and honking traffic and general hubbub of busier places don't exist here. The only near-constant sounds are birds chirping and espresso machines whooshing. Still, the lack of extraneous noise means I can really listen to what's going on here – people laughing, drinking coffee and living their intriguing Italian lives.
I finish my walk and turn toward home, my shoes scuffing against the cobblestones and my keys clinking in my bag. My small contribution to the city's hum feels like a connection.
I wander in the middle of the road, lost in my own thoughts, pondering the quiet and calm beauty of this place. Suddenly, a moped bellows to life behind me, and I flatten myself against a building to avoid its rusty wrath.
Maybe I'll ponder the city's noise levels from the side of the road.
