A Story

I would like to tell you the story of New Orleans, the story of myself really and my journey through the city in a summer- a summer that I itch for, a summer that I was the traveler and sung the traveler's song, and thought the traveler's thoughts. So I began with heavily weighted dreams, thoughts that made it difficult to do much else but think of a distant coast. After college I found myself hovering over the work world. There was no hurry about me and the world was mine. I didn't want the life of my body; I wanted the life of my spirit. I can visualize my spirit now as clearly as I could then- it is hardened steel, it is fire.

I was the first child in my family to graduate from college so much was expected. I had the highest hopes of all for myself. I have not found a profession yet. I am still stewing and brewing. I have vanished from many but become more visible to myself. Now I am stumbling, the story I wish to tell flaps in the wind and is hard to steady and put in order. I will begin now with New Orleans.

We arrived in New Orleans on a muggy July afternoon. Exhausted from sitting up awake in my seat all night, my back aching, I dragged my duffel bag through the train station and hailed a cab. My traveling companion and I rode to our hotel in silence. While heaving my bag from the cab I tore back a nail and watched a drop of blood drip down my hand. We trudged up the wooden stairs to the thin door of our room. Paranoid and unfamiliar with our surroundings, we briefly considered the likelihood of someone kicking in the door during the middle of the night, and decided that a chair propped against it would do little to stop an intruder. I was first to shower that night after twenty-four hours on the train. Soap and water made a difference. It was good to feel dirty and be refreshed. I hadn't felt exhausted and in need of anything for far too long. Almost as soon as I hit the bed, sleep came heavy and black for eleven hours, the drone of the air conditioner filling the room.
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My brief stay in New Orleans was the first stop on a long journey I was anxious to complete. I was striking out on the road of uncertainty, full of excitement and expectation. San Francisco was the final destination. I thought New Orleans would afford me the great luxury of peace of mind, a rest stop to recharge for the remainder of the trip. New Orleans was more than a characterless pit stop though. It had a distinct sense of place and powerful allure of its very own. I wondered if I was making a mistake by passing through. I think of walking the streets, passing through the quiet outskirts of the Quarter into a din of voices, laughter and forgetfulness on Bourbon Street. I remember the narrow sidewalks in the French Quarter, the shotgun houses with colorful window shutters and rod iron gates in front, the stray dogs, and the music pouring out of every door. Strangers smiled and said hello. I enjoyed syrupy, dark coffee and ate delicious hot beignets. I bought oversized poor boy sandwiches, spicy gumbo, and drank beers in short glasses. I was happy eating, drinking and interacting with the city’s residents. I still think of the people of New Orleans, easy to smile and capable of enjoying life completely. Ladies in their starched uniforms chatted and laughed loudly while waiting for the bus to work. A salt and pepper haired black man at the bus stop held a parasol up against the hot summer sun. He smiled at us and spoke softly offering me his parasol. I declined his offer but we talked about the bus service, the summer heat, and the city. The bus seemed to arrive too quickly. The man sat down in his seat, now intently focused on his destination. My traveling partner and I drifted info a familiar pattern of conversation. I often think of New Orleans and can still recall the sun on my back that day at the bus stop, and the certain tilt of the gentleman’s head and smile in a gesture of kindness.
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