silence, or close to it

"¿Esta muy ruido aqui, si?" It's so noisy here, right?

My host mom scrunched up her face and closed the doors to the balcony.

I smiled and nodded back in half agreement before realizing that I didn't agree at all.  It wasn't noise at all that I was hearing.  Maybe it's because my Spanish-processing mind hasn't yet developed enough agility to navigate its way through muffled crowd talk, but the sounds of dinnerware clatter and families enjoying each others company sounded almost musical to me (the fact that they mingled with a lively version of "My Way" on the accordian could have also contributed).  It's like how studying while listening to music in a different language has roughly the same effect as listening to instrumentals.  Your mind resists the immeasurable number of temptations to imbibe in processig or exercising or trying to get something out of everything that's being thrown at it.  Instead, it resigns.  Relaxes.  Breathes. Stops trying to learn something.  And in that resignation finds something worth more than all the stimuli could offer--beauty. 

Comprehension is usually a gift, but sometimes a curse.

There was a moment of silence this morning in my Writers of the Spanish Empire and Decline class.  It was brought to a close with my professor's reflective thoughts, which I hope I understood completely.  He gestured out the window and asked us to listen to what we had just heard.  No ambulences or sirens or cellphones or horns or cars.  What we hear on the streets of Toledo today is what one could hear in the 13th century. 

Me fascina.