I do not pick when I write. I write when time allows and I have ideas I want to put on paper. Just now is an example. Most often I write in the early morning when it is quiet and I have had a chance to think about my ideas. Lydia is napping. It is anything but quiet. We are in New Orleans in a hotel by Tulane University. The University hospital is down the street. We hear the ambulance sirens almost continually. I have the balcony window open to catch the breeze. Two sirens have passed by since I began writing. The background to the sirens is a steady rumble of cars, machinery, helicopters, motorcycles ripping down the street; the typical dull roar of a busy city. We are on the fifteenth floor and have a view of the tops of buildings through the thin overlay of smog. Last night at dusk, a huge flock of crows, in the hundreds I would imagine, danced on the air in front of our balcony. As they turned and changed directions, the entire “murder” would seem to disappear, only to reappear a second later, and flash large as their full bodies were turned to us. A flowing black tessellation.
We came to New Orleans to celebrate Lydia’s birthday. We had misgivings because of the pandemic. We didn’t want to spread the disease unintentionally and, we certainly didn’t want to get sick ourselves. Ultimately, I think we just needed to go. We love our home but, we love to wander just as much. I don’t believe I really was aware of how much we needed to travel, until I was drinking a cabernet at 10:00 o’clock in the morning at 39,000 feet in the air. It felt right.
Our experience of the pandemic has been limited to our little community, our talks with our children who get out more than we do, and what we’ve gleaned from the various screens in our lives. We’ve learned some things since leaving Albany:
People begin to look a lot alike with masks.
A friendly smile is impossible to give or receive.
Most people are wearing masks and following guidelines…we all want this to be over.
The impact of the crisis to the average person is larger than anyone seems aware (every cab driver we rode with was spending hours without a fare. The airports we were in were ghostly, few businesses were open. The few restaurants that are open are barely staffed.)
Though we could not see their smiles, folks sounded confident that things would get better.
Last night we went to dinner in the French Quarter. We had been there twice before. Our first visit was to celebrate our daughter’s 30th birthday. This visit coincided with a jazz festival. Our second trip coincided with the Homecoming celebrations of the two local universities and a Gay Pride convention. The French Quarter was a giant party, spread into the streets and blocking all motorized traffic! It was difficult to tell, last night, when we had entered the Quarter. The streets were empty and dark. The lights from the windows of our restaurant were the only lights on the block. It was almost apocalyptic. At the end of the block, the streetlights around Jackson Square lit an empty park, empty except for the inebriated gentleman batting rocks with a stick while he gave a lecture to the empty shops. While we ate dinner, we watched out the window. One or two traditional “ghost” tours came by (our restaurant was haunted), but they only consisted of four or five people.
It was tragic and emblematic.
We are going back to the French Quarter again tonight, a show of solidarity and support. We each need what the other has to offer. In the long run, I have every faith that we will survive this plague and be better, stronger people for the experience. In the meantime, we do what we can, when we can, to make the journey easier for others.
As a post script I need to point out that we have found the shrimp po’boy to be one of the greatest of manmade wonders of the world.

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