Get New Ears, Not A New Husband

I worked in LA last week and I stayed in a Spaceship.


Some hotels are quieter than others and the hotel I stayed in was not one of the quiet ones. I pulled into the hotel garage late at night. I got out of the car and the moment I set foot on the concrete floor of the parking structure, I could feel a low-tone all-consuming swooshy-humm in my bones. It was loud, but it didn’t hurt my ears it just rattled my skeleton. It sounded like a spaceship.

I gathered my bags and moved into the lobby. Once the lobby doors closed behind me the sound didn’t get quieter, it just got muffled and turned into that sound you hear in a Lucas film or in Star Trek movies where some monstrous Spaceship is just hanging there in black space looking haunting and intelligent. No matter the shape, it always looks fierce and like it could talk if it wanted to; but it doesn’t because it needs to keep its crucial mysterious vibe intact. And, the more evil it is, the louder the Spaceship sound.

To me that Spaceship sound is the sound of sucking and blowing at the same time. It’s the vacuous sound of base-like white noise that reverberates in your solarplexes. It’s reminiscent of the sound a 747 makes when it’s climbing off the runway. It’s a lower-tone version of the sound we love when the Blue Angels buzz the crowd at Fleet Week. It’s the sound of patriotism, power and mass fuel consumption that only an industrialized nation such as ours can attain. I love that sound. Need us to burn something? We’ll do it. And we’ll do it faster and hotter than anyone else and we'll top it off with a soundtrack that will become part of our collective consciousness in a matter of weeks. And, it will be on iTunes before you can say “Microsoft Sucks.”

Back to the hotel. In the case of the Marriott Courtyard on Ventura Boulevard in Sherman Oaks, that Spaceship sound was manufactured by the convergence of sixteen freeways in a single square block. I know; let’s find the loudest city block in the San Fernando Valley and then, let’s build a hotel there! So what’s the problem you ask? I thought you said you love that sound? Well I do, just not in my bedroom. That sound should be reserved for the movies, runways and Spaceships. Although it sounds like I’m complaining I’m not. Read further.

Every hotel has a sound that is tied to its geography. When you live in that geography, that sound disappears. But when you visit somewhere new, the sound of that new place is all you can hear. New places wake up our senses. The sound of LA is a ten lane freeway system that’s chalk full all hours of the day. Portland is the sound of bus air-breaks. Portlanders are big on public transportation. New York sounds like taxi cabs, garbage trucks and jack-hammers. Penang, Malaysia is muffled beats of night clubs peppered with periodic Muslim prayer.
Scooter-buzz rings Taiwan. Phoenix? constant hum of air conditioners. Milan? scooter-buzz plus horn beeping from the full-throttled European mini-mobiles.

Not Mini-Coopers, miniature cars that look like little suicide boxes on wheels careening down cobblestone streets in a desperate attempt to wedge into that newly available parking spot that doesn’t even exist, legally. Beijing sounds like construction sites and bicycle bells.

Over time, when we live in the same neighborhood, travel the same pathways to work, the gym, the grocery store and our favorite restaurants, we become deaf to the sounds of our geography. We get so accustomed to them that we don’t hear them any more. The sounds become such a part of us that they simply disappear. I don’t want the sounds of my life at home to disappear. If the sounds are disappearing, what else is so seamlessly integrated into my life that it just goes unnoticed?

A few summers ago my husband and I remodeled our house. We installed a small pond and water fall in the back yard, just outside of the kitchen. When we installed it my father, our nearly-naked underwear champion and water-feature guru, said to us “don’t worry kids, the water is loud but you’ll get used to it.”
To me this sentence: “you’ll get used to it” is the kiss of death. It can be applied to anything. Examples:

“I like the new paint color, but now I’m used to it. I barely notice it any more.”
“Yeah, your husband’s hot, but you’ll get used to it.”
“This house is really nice, but you’ll get used to it.”
“My new car is cool, but I’ll get used to it.”
“My sex life is great…”
“My new job is awesome…”

Where does it end?

I don’t want to get used to it! As soon as I’m used to it I’m tempted to get something new. To trade-up. To get my fix of that fresh feeling, that excitement that comes when you’re convinced that once you have that new pair of jeans, that couch or that new (wo)man, your life will be complete. Like that one new thing is the key to making everything else work. Some things in our lives warrant replacing. But most of the time we trade-up just because we’re sick of it. Trust me, you don’t have to get something new to feel renewed. Just go away for a while.

And so, instead of getting a new husband, a new house, a new car, a different lover or a job change, just go away from it as often as possible, wake up your sense and re-enter your same life with new ears. All hail the Spaceship hotel, the bing-bing of the Chinese bicyclist and the early-morning New York garbage trucks. New sounds for a new day that will bring a new perspective and appreciation for all the same crap we’ve become used to. Because your husband is hot, you do have a nice house and a cool car, your sex life isn’t that bad and you don’t always need a new job, you just need new ears. Try it. Book your own Spaceship hotel room and see what it does for you.