William shot me a smile and I returned it. We knew we were saying darling, adorable...and glad we don't have 'em. William's brother and his wife had a girl and a boy. Eventually they'd have a third and spending time with them at the beach or on Christmas morning was certainly "a good time had by all," but we never regretted our choice.
After dinner, William and I stepped home, tipsy and sated, to spend our last night together. William's bosses decided he should return to Los Angeles and I wanted to stay a full week. I'd barely started to click off items on my "must-eat" list and there were still many neighborhoods to explore.
The next morning my own pirate sailed away I gave myself a mission: I would seek solace in cheesy grits and biscuits before taking a house tour of the mansions on the Esplanade (Espla-naid).
I walked out of the hotel at eleven the next morning and wandered into the Quarter. Along Royal (Rerl) Street I discovered a Food Festival. It was like the city was waiting for me to arrive. White tented booths ran down the center of the street. Folks purchased beer, wine and Bloody Marys along with gumbo, fried turkey legs and pralines (praw-leens).
I bought a bowl of spicy jambalaya (jom-ba-lye), sat on the steps of the police station and listened to authentic jazz undulating from the end of a busker's trumpet. New Orleans languished as her real self on this day. The sun beat down at 84 degrees and the humidity was a damp 98 percent. I caught a glimpse of myself in a Napoleonic mirror and saw that I'd slipped from a feminine glow directly into sweating like an oinker. Bad.
I needed help and went to the French Market, where I found a Panama hat. The only good thing in the French Market, by the way. It's mostly a cheesy collection of T-shirts and voodoo dolls. In front of Cafe du Monde, where William and I had previously enjoyed cafe au laits and hot, powdery beignets, a crowd had amassed to cheer competitors as they crossed the finish line of New Orleans' Ironman race.
After seventy miles of biking, swimming and running, extremely lean men and a few women stumbled soaking wet into the arms of volunteers. Many looked delirious and needed to be carried away. It was a bit sickening to witness and could put one right off athleticism, especially after a bowl of jambalaya. I clapped my hands for the runners and moved on toward the direction of the house tour.
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