It's six thirty on the morning and I'm lying in bed listening to the thump and thunder of freight trains shifting on the tracks between Chartres Street and the Mississippi River just a block from our little rental house.
There's s mockingbird singing outside my window, too.
|Making a new friend|
Last night we took a walk around the neighborhood. We had dinner at the local barbecue joint on Royal Street. Pretty good pulled pork and smoked brisket. Everyone in the place was white and elaborately tattooed except for a table of four New Orleans police officers.
I had a nice French rose with my pork, slaw and beans. It cost $5.50. After, we strolled down Royal to Poland Avenue to the wine bar and I had another glass of rose, this one from Majorca, and it was $10. Still cheaper than Los Angeles prices, but you can see how things are going in the neighborhood.
Here, too, everyone was white, and there were man-buns in addition to the tattoos. No cops, though; the food here isn't so hearty.
We listened for a while to some New Age music by a trio featuring a Senegalese cora, and then jet lag began to overtake us.
Tired and exhausted, we walked back the few blocks to the house, marveling at the brilliance of the sunset.
This is going to be a good place to call home.