When I think of New Orleans, I think beignets, Cafe du Monde, the horses and carriages, the wrought-iron French lace balconies, voodoo dolls and beads, the darkest loveliest cup of coffee ever, One-Eyed Jacks and the prettiest bartender ever, Meghann, and all the sweet spooky intellectuals I met there.
New Orleans wouldn't go down. It had to withstand the force. The sheer amount of haunt kept the heart of that storm away. Sure, the city's been hurt, but not swept away. And it could have happened. Too many good spells and magic keep a place alive. Especially those Rues and Calles in the French Quarter.
San Francisco is beautiful and haunted in a little less of a dark way. She is more full of wind and seagull's cries. She is more cold and alive. New Orleans is more death and dies. But funerals are alive too as we well know. Time is just an illusion. New Orleans makes peace with death and laughs with her poor man's cemetaries and her sweaty pavement heat.
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