When I travel, I am always attune to how the sounds of a place are different from the sounds of my home. There, the first sign of spring has little to do with flowers blooming, birds chirping, or rain falling. It is the sound of the ice cream truck, inching its way down the street, playing that incessant song that makes children salivate… and parents hide their wallets. In the morning, when I hear garbage pails scrapping against the ground as they are dragged to the curb, I know I had better move my own before the garbage trucks fly by. No one wants to smell the contents of those containers for another week, especially in the summer. Growing up, when music was blasting out of a boombox (a large, heavy radio with a long handle, large speakers and a tape deck carried on someone’s shoulder), I knew cardboard was about to be unfolded to provide cushioning for break dancers who were warming up for the most peaceful of urban duels.

These were very different sounds from what I heard when I lived in Guadalajara, Mexico, where gas for cooking and heating water is delivered in large, metal canisters. When you are running low, you hope and pray to hear a truck drive by with a megaphone, blasting, “Zeta Gaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaas.” People rhythmically bellow, “Pitaaaaaaayaaaaaaaa,” as they walk through the streets with fresh dragon fruits for sale from baskets balanced on their heads. There is often the faint swish of someone sweeping dirt and leaves off the sidewalks. Every once in a while, a procession announces itself with drums, followed by dancers, other musicians, and an altar for the Virgin of the Day. Hundreds of people march by in matching outfits, trailed by small children in adorable versions of the same.

These relatively calm sounds cannot compete with the alarmingly energetic roosters that wake me up each dawn break in Santo Domingo, the capital of the Dominican Republic. Within a few hours, traffic sounds mix with the thwaps of dominoes being slapped onto card tables by older men, laughing and talking trash. The saddest sound is the universal groan that echoes through the streets when the electricity shuts off, as it always does, without warning, at least once a day. The sudden silence is followed by the powering up of generators owned by the lucky few. The sweetest sound is the cheer let out when the electricity turns back on, moments before music with incredible bass beats returns to full blast, no matter what time of day or night.

When I moved to São Paulo, Brazil, I was curious to find out what new sounds my ears would be treated to. I have only seen pitaias on sale at the market, but I have been offered pamonhas, pamonhas e pamonhas from the back of a car. I wasn’t prepared for the incredible number of motorcycle engines constantly zooming by and lightly honking to announce their next move. My sleep is no longer interrupted by the planes that take off and land at Congonhas airport, every ten minutes, from 6AM to 10PM… though my phone conversations certainly are. Few things make me happier than hearing samba music spill out into the streets, from live musicians at Seus Domingos, schools practicing for Carnaval, or car windows as the driver drums to the beat on the steering wheel. I stopped being alarmed by the outbursts during and after soccer games once I knew around what time to expect them, on Wednesday and Sunday nights.

There was one day that I heard a communal outburst that I was not expecting. Adults were banging on things they normally give toddlers when they don’t know how else to keep them entertained: pots, pans, wooden spoons, spatulas… agogôs. Cars were honking. Fire crackers were being set off. I ran out on my balcony and recorded short audio clips to send to my family and friends through WhatsApp. Every time I had one that I thought was really impressive, another wave of sound would roll through, stronger than the last. That was the day I learned the word panelaço. When it comes to noise, nobody beats Brazil.