Today I went on a bikeride out to the banks of Lake Pontchartrain. On the way back, I passed a neighborhood where two trumpets playing were dueling out a tune, each from a distance of four blocks from the other. Then I went out for some coffee and heard kids from 4 to 14 be taught a free lesson by some of the best brass players in town while the rain outside our window teased out its own cacophony in competition. The music of New Orleans.
Avocados are called alligator pears in New Orleans. Their rough skin is like the roads I pedal down, covered with potholes. I pass flowers in bloom, lizards, and like, for we live on top of a swamp.
This magical, wonderland of sounds and sight I am leaving. I have come to the end of my journey with this place. The swamp- what is the hold she has had on me? I have heard it rumored that she takes her prisoners, sucking them into her skirts as they fall for this siren bayou. Musicians feel it, they just don't quite feel the same anywhere else. Even a young bible-touting fellow traveler at a hostel called it out, proclaiming that New Orleans was full of sin. Aw, but isn't that sinful inciting spoonful just delicious?
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