By Brendan McLaughlin

When I lived in San Francisco, I knew it was going to be a good day  when the fog burned off before noon to reveal the blue Pacific framed by the rust-orange spans of the Golden Gate Bridge.  A good day in Seattle was when Magnolia Coffee fired up their roasters and the sharp, nutty aroma of toasted beans wafted into the  kitchen even before I  brewed my own coffee. Now I live in Tampa, and a good day is when I can't hear the freeway.

The fact that I live a block and a half from the intersection of I-4 and I-275 is my own damn fault. I scouted the lot, build the house and moved in- all of my own volition. I knew the regions's busiest roadway was a five-iron from the front door, but there I am.

From my home near downtown, the freeway is essentially invisible, shielded from view by an enormous white concrete wall.  The noise seems to come from nowhere and everywhere. And like the earthy smell of Seattle coffee, the sound of the interstate is carried by the wind. When the breezes blows from the east, it's a wall of sound blending the treble hiss of air colliding with windshields and  the bassy thump of tires tapping the seams of the roadway.  But when the wind is calm or westerly, you'd never know a river of chrome-covered humanity was speeding by just over yonder.

My relationship with this immutable, unsleeping neighbor is still in the formative stage. Sometimes, when I have to raise my voice to greet a neighbor, I wonder "what in the world have I done? I might as well have moved next door to a chinchilla farm".  Then the wind shifts and it's as quiet as Mayberry.  But even at its worse, the asphalt dragon's low roar quickly recedes into the background. There's no jarring engine revs or squealing brakes because the traffic is always at speed.  And  when I'm snug on my couch three minutes after taking the exit off I-275, I feel pretty smart living so close a main artery.

Sometimes I fantasize about a future where everyone has their own personal garbage-powered jetpack and freeways are rendered obsolete and converted to linear bocce ball courts. But the truth is, the interstate will outlive me. And when I finally put this house up for sale,  the listing will read: "Bungalow Charmer- Close to schools, parks and the soothing white noise of malfunction junction"