Before checking into our hotel I had to see my last home and the one where I was raised. They were destroyed of course. We rode through streets no longer familiar until we came to a recognizable feature more or less intact. You’re not exactly numb, that passed last year, but you are saddened and disoriented.

It comes to you obliquely and in bits and pieces. Years ago I read that those who measure such things ranked New Orleans’ drinking water among the best in the world. You forget that sort of thing until you pour a glass from the tap in your room and the sweetness of it is so apparent that you remember that long ago article.

After dinner we walk in the Quarter past places I frequented in another time. I smile inwardly at a memory and a familiar door. I see the Cathedral, the Square and turn into a still open shop on Royal, taking it in as it slowly filled me again with its seductive charm.
I hear the soft sound from a deep melodic voice and when the sound of the harmonica give me chills, I step out, onto the sidewalk and listen to the music played by two men seated on the corner beneath the street light.
I have never seen these men before; I have never seen musicians play on this corner; I have never been bathed by this streetlight, but it’s been building all day. From the fellow in the parking garage who says, “I’ll take care of you mah man” to my first bite of bread pudding, the feel of it, the sound, the light, the beauty of movement, the cadence of the speech, all of it came to me at that moment as I watch those jazz men play with the sound of the city, a city so unique it will not, can not fade. Damn, in that moment I was home.


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