I'm sitting behind St Louis Cathedral,
probably one of the USA's oldest churches (but not verified). The
clock is showing 11:17 and the morning bells calling parishioners to
Sunday services ended a few minutes ago. Two nuns in full habits
walked by moments ago, probably rushing to answer the church's call.
The back side of the church is gated with wrought iron, protecting
the sanctity of the garden sanctuary that Jesus' statue blesses for
the people of New Orleans. Outside the fence, artists hang their
creations to sell to passersby exploring Pirate's Alley, Royal St,
and the French Quarter on their way to peeping a glance of the Mighty
Mississippi and the chance to feel connected to the major surface
water source of North America.
Wafting through the stucco and plaster
walled streets are the swirls of clarinets, horns and snare drums
with occasional violin and banjo interludes to capture the
imagination of anyone looking to glamorize the life of street
performers. The road or better yet the sidewalk in front of me is
cobbled together with large pieces of slate held together with mortar
and bisected by a drainage trough that proves tricky to navigate for
all captivated by the archaic homage to French and Spanish Colonial
architecture around them. The skies are a crystal blue and the
sunshine blanket on the buildings around Pirate's Alley punctuates
the color contrasts so associated with life in New Orleans.
