Our wake upcall was at 5:00. Our suitcase wheels rumbled quietly across the bricked courtyard, the fountains on the walls trickled silently as well in a morning so damp and warm that the air was a shroud of steam. A few steps through the brilliantly white and quite cool lobby and we were out the front door and once again in the steamy morning. Across the street, the river was a gray ribbon, velvet not satin, no shine to it in the semi dawn. This was not the crisp, cold dawn of the Northwest, not the sharp promise of the beginning of a day, no shiver of anticipation, no thought of “okay then, let’s get going.” No one rattled trash cans down to the street, or honked horns to friends to hurry so they wouldn’t be late for work. No. It was still hot from the day before and drunks slept shirtless on shop steps without fear of being cold. Doors and windows were barred and boarded, as if a hurricane might creep in during the night and steal the shops and stores away. No street lights. Black plastic trash bags lined the sidewalk, huddled up against the building bricks, the last chore to do before bed in the early morning. For now the party is over and it is as though the streets have pulled back in shame and remorse, at least until the sun crests the horizon and the party begins again.

We follow a police car for blocks in our cab. The blue and red lights strobe from the grill though the cop does not seem to be in a hurry and is simply signifying his presence, a hushed promise that, for now, all is well in the Vieux Carre.

At the station, we are herded into a small waiting lounge and ultimately escorted to the train as a group. Once aboard The Crescent, we have a quick breakfast in the diner and then snuggle together on the couch in our room to sleep our way through Mississippi.

To say that New Orleans was fun would not be quite accurate. Rather it was interesting, memorable, and stirring. It was like the dessert you shouldn’t have, but have any way, and do it again another time in a heart-beat.

The Road