You know me, I work in a country place called Ensenada. But, back in the city, I notice the characteristic sounds in the background. The soundtrack is familiar, the same as it ever was: the deep, low voice of the foghorns, calling across the ocean, the bright, merry clang of the cable car's bells, the rough, distinctive cries of the wild parrots passing, their bright wings clattering and flashing in the sun. These sounds were as familiar to me as my family's voices when I lived with them, and like their voices, made me feel happy and at home. Now, they seem melancholy and a little foreign, the soundtrack to someone else's life.