My eyes are dim with childish tears,
My heart is idly stirred,
For the same sound is in my ears
Which in those days I heard.
William Wordsworth
Sounds are time machines, awakening memories and stirring feelings rooted in our past experiences. We associate sounds with specific life situations, whether exceptional or mundane. The unannounced sound of a doorbell is now rarely heard. It was one of the usual sounds, like the gurgling of a cast-iron drinking fountain spewing water uncontrollably, the click of a rotary telephone dial, or the shout of a street vendor. Who even knows what a home doorbell sounds like today? What about a lack of natural sounds such as birdsong, the lack of sound of children playing in the street, and silence, which is almost absent in the hustle and bustle of the city?
There are many reasons for changes in the soundscapes of our daily lives over the past few decades. However, changes in soundscapes are closely tied to micro-locations, even within a single city—in this case, Zagreb. Each neighbourhood whispers its own story through sound, a delicate chorus of memories and moments. The selected sounds have been given personal stories, short tales. I hope to stir something within the listener—an emotional echo that bridges the gap between memory and present, reminding us that even in constant change, the sounds of our lives remain.
The Doorbell
The other day, someone rang the doorbell—unexpectedly. Drrrrrrriiiiiin! No warning. I wasn’t expecting anyone, and it caught me off guard. I thought to myself: even delivery drivers send a message first; even mothers now call instead of dropping by, as they used to.
Hurriedly, I threw a housecoat over my pajamas—still unchanged past noon—and crept toward the door. “Who is it?” I asked shyly, loud enough to be heard through the wood.
Potatoes, Onions
Pablo, our household tiger, was a fine hunter, though Grandma Ana disapproved. He’d prowl around the house and proudly lay a mouse or sparrow at the doorstep now and again. Grandma would clean it with a grimace and wait. Come the weekend, her face would light up with a smile. “Potatoes! Onioooons!” bellowed down the street from a truck. Grandma stepped outside, where a girl sat beside the driver. She bought potatoes, and Pablo was sent on a one-way journey.
The Old (Landline) Phone
Even on a business trip, I preferred to stay at my aunt’s old flat—steeped in childhood scents—rather than some anonymous hotel. She was away at the seaside. I fetched the key from a neighbour, opened the door, and stepped into a quiet I hadn’t heard in years. I knew where the light switches were, even in the dark. Everything familiar felt strange again.
I left my small suitcase in the spacious blue-walled bedroom, brewed tea, and settled in front of the TV, notebook in hand—ready for thoughts that might need catching. A sharp ring shattered my reverie.
“Hello? Ah, Mira—it’s fine. Everything’s just as it was. Yes, I’m staying another day.”
Wi-Fi
To reach the internet, one had to descend four flights of stairs to a rented office below. But that didn’t bother me—I didn’t need it much then. I’d go down and pretend to work, mimicking my father who’d always log in briefly to check his mail.
Click, ping, krrrrrshhhh, iiiii, ooo, ziiinggg… the symphony of dial-up until connection. Brief, fleeting—who could afford more?
Iron Martin (cast-iron water fountain)
There’s one at Zrinjevac park, though I can’t recall another. It’s summer. I approach quickly, a bottle tucked in my bag for days now. While children satisfy their thirst for water and play, I watch pigeons shuffle nearby—life isn’t easy for them either.
At last, I press the lever. Legs apart to avoid the first splash. After a teasing hiss, the stream flows. I drink.
The Manual Coffee Grinder
At the seaside, Grandma would fill it each afternoon, then hand it over like a bone to puppies, to us children battling for the first turn. Starting was nearly impossible. Fathers did it, or mothers—if it wasn’t too full. We’d tuck it under one arm and crank the little handle—slow at first, then faster. The slim metal tube, hammered with delicate dents, was a staple in every decent home. Check your attic or cellar—you’ll find one there still.
The Milk Clocker
I’m unsure of its real name, but the neighbour from the third floor had one. It waited patiently at the pot’s bottom as she poured fresh milk to boil.
Click, click, click, click… usually four sparks before the gas lit. Then she’d calmly leave the kitchen, unfazed. She didn’t worry—she had the milk clocker. A glass piece, like a tiny plate with two opposite notches, it gurgled just right, calling her back before the milk boiled over.
Children’s Street Play
The worst part of the day? When the streetlights flicked on. It signalled the end of playtime and the call to return home. Behind our building—bikes, roller skates, jump rope, tag, hide and seek—all sung with laughter, tears, songs. Especially in summer, between school’s end and seaside trips.
Now and then, a child would call up to a window, asking Mom to toss a shirt or a ball, pleading to stay a bit longer. By dusk, when the heat eased, grandparents would emerge and claim their bench posts. Their stories, our shouts, and giggles mingled with the occasional tram and frogs croaking faintly from the lake.
Silence
I sit on a couch in the heart of the city. As night deepens, sounds soften—yet the garage ventilation hums, tireless. A car passes, a café plays music just a few doors away. Between 11 p.m. and midnight, especially nearing the weekend, someone races down the street—engine roaring, shredding the stillness.
To truly hear silence, I’ll have to give up this couch.
