Sunday, July 3, 2011


New Orleans is the blues and touristy streets that would look amazing if they were deserted. Luckily, on a Sunday, they are and I wander alone to buy a hat and perfume. Shrimp po-boys are eaten alone and I enjoy the men’s frivolity and noise in the fish stalls of the market in the French quarter. Dingy bars nearby prevail and we dance to music played by famous new Orleans TV stars with tattoos. We drink in absinthe bar courtyards and spend time with a freaky ghost tour guide. The house we are in is breezy and long, cool, high ceilinged and we all rest in the afternoons from the 35 degree heat and humidity that we can no longer walk in. It drains us and burns us and sweats through our clothes. The trees of the French quarter provide relief but everywhere else is dried out in the sun. On our last day Louella and I find a coffee shop full of likeminded people and play dominos. There is an openness here and the mingling of old and new, blues and modern, heat and wide roads combine to create a space of acceptance and languor by day, music and dancing by night in the marshy Louisiana right next to the Mississippi river.

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