And So I Went and There I Saw Balconies
I almost didn’t go. I had my excuses. Every time the subject came up, I rattled those excuses off: conserving money, conserving car mileage and wear, working on projects, etc. Excuses all! So when asked again to visit, I took a deep breath and said, “Ok! I’ll leave tomorrow.”
And that’s when I drove down to New Orleans, to that mythical city (at least, in my mind) on the Mississippi River in the South where people party and southern hospitality reigns, to the legendary and infamous Bourbon Street in the equally famous French Quarter where you can take your booze to-go and where you can listen to street musicians play jazz, to the shops where VooDoo is a commercial commodity and fortune tellers trace your palm or read the Tarot. Hey, Sunshine, come let me read your fortune,” a dark-haired man called to me. I shook my head no. “Then go to one of them fake gypsies instead and be sorry.” I didn’t. I don’t need my fortune told. I don’t want to know.
I fell in love with New Orleans.
In New Orleans, in the French Quarter where I spent most of my time, the balconies demand attention. And so, as an appetizer to what will come in future posts, I present some of my favorite balconies. In the tradition of New Orleans cemetery naming conventions, each photo will be given its category and a number. (Yes, there will definitely be a cemetery post in the future.)