I wish I was sitting on a balcony in the Quarter. Not Bourbon street, but one of the quieter side roads.
I don't want much space. A bedroom, a small living room, small kitchen. Close enough to the restaurants to be able to grab a shrimp etoufee or red beans and rice, but not so close I'm woken by drunken frat boys at 3 am.
If New Orleans had an I.T. industry, I'd be there, earning the ducats, walking the cobblestoned streets of a night, feeling the warm humid breeze and watching the gaslights flicker. After a maduro cigar and a dark rum drink of some sort, a hurricane or a rum and coke.
A small locked garage where I could keep two motorcycles, with which to commute out of the city when the tourists show up.
But alas, there is no IT industry in New Orleans, there is no small apartment with secured motorcycle parking, and so I sit here in Tacoma, Washington - dreaming as I have for years and wishing as I have for years that there is some way I could be there.
I'm not interested in fucking Mardi Gras or U of Alabama students flashing their tits. There's a weight of centuries about the place. Everything in Tacoma is too new - and I consider the 1800s to be too new. I would live in Vieux-Montreal but for the cold and the taxes, lack of opportunity and rights.
I love New Orleans. My fantasies involve living there, or at the very least taking a beautiful girl there and fucking in the humid nights after a day of pain perdu, perique, absinthe, beignets, pralines, and general good living.
Dear New Orleans - I love you dearly. Some day I will come to you.
I don't want much space. A bedroom, a small living room, small kitchen. Close enough to the restaurants to be able to grab a shrimp etoufee or red beans and rice, but not so close I'm woken by drunken frat boys at 3 am.
If New Orleans had an I.T. industry, I'd be there, earning the ducats, walking the cobblestoned streets of a night, feeling the warm humid breeze and watching the gaslights flicker. After a maduro cigar and a dark rum drink of some sort, a hurricane or a rum and coke.
A small locked garage where I could keep two motorcycles, with which to commute out of the city when the tourists show up.
But alas, there is no IT industry in New Orleans, there is no small apartment with secured motorcycle parking, and so I sit here in Tacoma, Washington - dreaming as I have for years and wishing as I have for years that there is some way I could be there.
I'm not interested in fucking Mardi Gras or U of Alabama students flashing their tits. There's a weight of centuries about the place. Everything in Tacoma is too new - and I consider the 1800s to be too new. I would live in Vieux-Montreal but for the cold and the taxes, lack of opportunity and rights.
I love New Orleans. My fantasies involve living there, or at the very least taking a beautiful girl there and fucking in the humid nights after a day of pain perdu, perique, absinthe, beignets, pralines, and general good living.
Dear New Orleans - I love you dearly. Some day I will come to you.