LOVEBIRDS - 1998
The train creeps in at midnight. A single sign rises out of the dark. The stark warning is bold: THOU SHALL NOT KILL. When I call the B&B from the station, my host gives explicit directions, “Say ‘Ber-GUN-dy,’ not ‘Burgundy,’ or you’ll get dumped in the projects and we’ll never see you.” In my room, I feel buzzed from the danger. I wake up in a comfy chenille bed. Exploding clouds mar the spanking new blue sky; two lovely mutts knock me down with sloppy kisses as I leave my room. I swing the courtyard gate open and enter the beauty of a New Orleans day. The boxy shotgun houses are washed in bright colors highlighted with white or sea green piping. Every now and then, a rebel pink or purple peeks in between. I shuck my inappropriate pants and oxford shirt for honey linen shorts and a red bippy shirt, Chuck T low-riders. The mutts bark approvingly as I bounce out on my second try. I drink in huge exotic blooms on winding vines; shiny beads hang from wrought iron balconies. Calliope music from a riverboat bubbles over the Quarter and imbues a spirit of bonhomie. Spiced coffee and sugared beignets by the riverside absolve the city’s sins from the previous night.
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