You're listening to Radiotopia Presents from PRX's Radiotopia.

I grew up on the 15th floor of an apartment building in Manhattan.

Actually, it was the 14th floor.

There was no 13 button in the elevator to stave off bad luck.

It was an old building, and my family kept the windows

open year-round, even in winter because the steam heat could be overpowering. Which means I heard

the roar of the city at all hours and in all seasons, an ocean-like white noise, a noise I missed

whenever I tried to sleep in the countryside.

But other than that roar, it was really pretty quiet.

Only a few individual sounds reach an apartment that high off the ground.

Sirens, hawks, whistles, the occasional dog bark,

sounds of warning, sounds designed to rise above

the rest. As soon as I took the elevator down and walked outside though, I was immediately

swept up into that ocean of sound. Up close, it was less like a roar and more like being hit by a massive wave, of sounds,

and of people.

As a kid, I prided myself on being able to move quickly through those New York crowds.

It was like a city version of surfing, anticipating how this wave of people and cars would

move, getting in a groove and riding it through.

Now I find the sidewalks in New York harder to navigate.

I'm older for sure, but I don't think my city instincts are so stale.

I've spent a lot of my adult life on tour as a musician, traveling in cities, some

twice the size of New York.

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