Lantern Press postcard.
"There was something about the city, though it didn't let me feel guilty that I had no feeling for the things so many needed. It let me alone."
Charles Bukowski
Charles Bukowski
You step off the plane and rush to the hotel. Hurry up! Throw your things on the bed and head out. Vacation time! There's so much to do and not a lot of time.
The Uber waits. The driver whisks you to the garden district. It's the first stop on a long itinerary of must sees. So much to see, so little time. But the Crescent city has other plans for you.
The Uber waits. The driver whisks you to the garden district. It's the first stop on a long itinerary of must sees. So much to see, so little time. But the Crescent city has other plans for you.
You arrive on St Charles Avenue and jump out of the car. The driver hasn't come to a complete stop. You hot foot it down the avenue. Here's the thing, your scurrying and scrambling make Ms. Nola nervous. She cranks up the heat.
The warmth and humidity slow you down, while revving up your libido. Ms. Nola brushes her hands together. "Yes Cher, that's more like it."
You begin to pay attention not only to the grand houses encompassed with blooms of every colors, but all of your senses have come alive.
The neighborhood may look like classic antebellum south, but the iron fences with fleur-de-lis tops tell a different story. Magic is it's signature color.
Your stroll becomes a meander as the aroma of magnolia and jasmine weave a spell on you. The intoxicating perfume has a hint of sweetness and a whisper of risqué decision making.
You've been untamed.
The warmth and humidity slow you down, while revving up your libido. Ms. Nola brushes her hands together. "Yes Cher, that's more like it."
You begin to pay attention not only to the grand houses encompassed with blooms of every colors, but all of your senses have come alive.
The neighborhood may look like classic antebellum south, but the iron fences with fleur-de-lis tops tell a different story. Magic is it's signature color.
Your stroll becomes a meander as the aroma of magnolia and jasmine weave a spell on you. The intoxicating perfume has a hint of sweetness and a whisper of risqué decision making.
You've been untamed.
Photo by Henning Roettger: https://www.pexels.com/photo/shallow-focus-photo-of-crocodile-on-body-of-water-2100047/
Your meander morphs into a strut and you head to the French Quarter with purpose. You're headed to the carousel bar and lounge in the hotel Monteleone.
Outside, a woman stands with a cart full of masks.
She asks your name.
Then you ask hers.
"My name is Marie Laveau. "
Outside, a woman stands with a cart full of masks.
She asks your name.
Then you ask hers.
"My name is Marie Laveau. "
You recognize the name but can't quite put your finger on how you know it.
She offers you a beautiful mask. "It's a lagniappe."
A gift.
You are still under the seduction of the city when you choose the blue and white one. It sparkles. Did it just say your name? Well, it's the perfect accessory for happy hour.
She offers you a beautiful mask. "It's a lagniappe."
A gift.
You are still under the seduction of the city when you choose the blue and white one. It sparkles. Did it just say your name? Well, it's the perfect accessory for happy hour.
The mask is enchanted, but you are spellbinding.
You sashay to the famous revolving bar and take a seat. You're the only one wearing a mask, but it's New Orleans. They don't care. You order a hurricane, because a storm is brewing.
As the bar rotates, you sing, "round and round and round she goes, where she stops nobody knows."
Only you know. You enjoy your libation at a luxurious pace. Yes, Ms. Nola taught you well.
When you're done you stand up, then smooth out your dress. Take a deep breath. The first gentlemen you see is your date.
My, oh my, he's wearing a mask too.
You take his hand and head to a smoky room, with the smell of wine and cheap perfume. No, no, that's a song. You do head out to a little jazz bar and dance to the horns and piano all night. And go on and on and on and on.
Then you leave.
Strangers walking down the boulevard.
Dang it there's that song again.
You sashay to the famous revolving bar and take a seat. You're the only one wearing a mask, but it's New Orleans. They don't care. You order a hurricane, because a storm is brewing.
As the bar rotates, you sing, "round and round and round she goes, where she stops nobody knows."
Only you know. You enjoy your libation at a luxurious pace. Yes, Ms. Nola taught you well.
When you're done you stand up, then smooth out your dress. Take a deep breath. The first gentlemen you see is your date.
My, oh my, he's wearing a mask too.
You take his hand and head to a smoky room, with the smell of wine and cheap perfume. No, no, that's a song. You do head out to a little jazz bar and dance to the horns and piano all night. And go on and on and on and on.
Then you leave.
Strangers walking down the boulevard.
Dang it there's that song again.
Well, I'll end this fantasy version of The Big Easy...I could keep going but then I'd have to put a warning for mature audiences. Written by a Scorpio, dahlin. But, I'll keep it mysterious for now.
The next entry I write will be my real itinerary.
But in the meantime...
If you like the New Orleans postcard at the top of the page be the first to comment and it's yours.
A lagniappe.
Bòn Nwit,
Kelly
The next entry I write will be my real itinerary.
But in the meantime...
If you like the New Orleans postcard at the top of the page be the first to comment and it's yours.
A lagniappe.
Bòn Nwit,
Kelly
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