I apologize the short respite of love posts. It’s not because I’ve run out of resources, but I’ve been slightly preoccupied the past couple of days and it’s been hard to find to reflect and even harder to find time to write. But, as I sit in the Houston airport and initiate the posts again, I’m reminded of the innate joy these little blurbs bring to my life.
Where to begin.
New Orleans.
Being in a spirited city immediately induced new energy in me. The uneven sidewalks, beautiful storefronts, and constant wafts of pralines embraced me, creating a longing for city life. I’m by no means a well-traveled person, but what I love about going places is hearing the story it has to tell.
The fresh fishy smells wondering through NOLA’s streets told me the city survives off the bounty of the surrounding bay. The boats sleuthing by told stories of fisherman and sea-goers, nets of crawfish, and the generous restaurant owners who have mercilessly perfected the art of seafood for their patrons.
The chipping paint and rusting window sills made mention of the struggles written into NOLA’s heart. The Superdome, although home to the infamous Saints, resonated with me as a place of refuge. Even the convention center, in flawless form, whispered, “I was once a shelter, I held those who lost their homes in Katrina, I look flawless, but I bear the burdens of people’s loss and love.”
The people.
From the overly helpful hotel front desk lady to the wonderfully innocent server we had at our final New Orleans supper, everyone acted as if we were family. Sunday evening, before departing for dinner, the front desk woman offered me her jacket, seeing my body tremble in cold. I told her I was a terribly messy person and I would most likely accidently spill something. It didn’t phase her, though, she still insisted that it would pay her no bother to share the warmth of her leather jacket with me for awhile. Another man, in a brief interaction, introduced himself as a children’s book writer. He shared the title of the book and his e-mail address, requesting a review sent as soon as I had a chance to look at the book. At a short Saturday lunch respite, our server noted that I didn’t eat the bread accompanying my sandwich. As she swooped up my plate, she asked if I had a gluten intolerance. When I nodded my head in confirmation, she mentioned, in a grandmotherly tone, that they have a menu of entirely gluten free choices. I felt as if she extending some unwarranted sympathy towards me, looking out for me. NOLA reminded me that people humanity is trustworthy. Humanity is beautiful.
New Orleans taught me that letting a place tell you its story is love.
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