In 1998 I moved into a questionable neighborhood to shack up with an equally questionable guy, in a house almost as shady as the street it sat on. Yet despite its beach towel curtains and unidentifiable odor, Squalor Manor had potential (and as it turned out, so did the guy). One thing I forgot to consider before moving in with my future husband was the level of noise inherent to city living. Rush hour traffic, sirens and a neighborhood rooster, along with the creaks and groans of a 75-year-old house, created the urban equivalent of a Philip Glass marathon—and much like Philip Glass, it was unbearable. I was relieved when the racket finally began fading into the background, and the only sound left to break up the static was a train’s whistle. Fast forward a few years, and our neighborhood has grown so hip, even the property taxes are ironic. Our streets are virtually hooker-free, and the coffeehouse to porn-shop ratio has begun to even out. These days, people pay alarming sums of money to live down by the tracks. There’s a railroad crossing less than a quarter mile from our house. It can be a minor inconvenience during day, but at night the distant sound of approaching trains is comforting. Each time a whistle blows, my husband or I will ask, “Where should we go tonight?” Sometimes it’s New Mexico or Colorado; other nights we take the long haul up through…