In with Dylan's Highway 61 Revisited album and the road leads to the Big Easy. Magic and music. There ain't nothing mundane in New Orleans. After a ghost haunt tour and a jazz visit in the French quarter, it's just me and E, staring up at the Dixie moon in the Garden district.
I'm almost at the end of my trip, and I've got less than a day to make it to Miami.
But here in New Orleans, from the gradually returning grounds of the 9th ward to those steadfast, still-standing bricks in the French Quarter, I'm starting to think a bit more about what this road trip really meant to me.
Tonight it was just me and E, and it was one of the best nights of my life. I'm letting the magnitude of this moment settle deep into my shell. This city is such a potent reminder that nothing should be taken for granted. And faced with that kind of reality, it's good to have what really matters by your side.
And then there's still music. I think it was Tom Waits, "my friends and me… play some pool and listen to that tenor saxophone calling me home… New Orleans, I'll be there." Me and E, we're there, and even if New Orleans isn't our home, we're in a better kind of home because we're together. And as some raspy scat singing cat and a tender trumpet blasts out over our Creole night, Miami doesn't have the pull it once did.
But I don't mean to get all mushy, because this city is still a celebration and that's what we're here to do. Cheers to that, cheers to E, cheers to Trexie, cheers to my doll of a goldfish, and cheers to midnight meanderings on the Louisiana Bayou.
New Orleans is bringing it back. I'm proud to be a part of the city, even if just for a night.
I'm off, mate. Next time, I'll sea you in Miami.
Pinch out,
Gil
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