I traveled light to New Orleans, leaving behind whatever embarrassment of riches still remains in my house; I leave New Orleans even less encumbered than when I arrived, but filled with a treasure trove of riches not to be found on any curb. Forced togetherness with friends I see too infrequently, shared joy at the wedding of a girl I've known forever, memories cobbled together by a great mix of people in a place like no other.
I had no "plus one," and weddings can be daunting when you're flying solo. Or so I thought. Minus a plus one, I found myself plus two hundred or so, concerned about nobody's fun but my own. My feet hurt and my jeans are a bit snug, but it was worth it.
New Orleans is a hotbed of music and art and food and good fun, not to mention debauchery. And, like no other city, it doesn't sit by idly while it hosts your joy; it participates in it. Our buses left the wedding with a police escort -- a police escort! -- for the twenty minute drive back to the French Quarter. The police closed off a major street -- a major street! -- so that two hundred drunken revelers, led by a jazz band and our newlyweds, could march and whoop their way back to our hotel. Locals far less well-heeled than most of us cheered us along, shared in our celebration. I would consider getting married again, if only to experience that march -- the "second line" -- one more time. Okay, maybe I'll just watch the video.
I return tonight to what has been my home for five and a half years, and it will be jarring to see all my "things" packed away in boxes in a single room. Tomorrow I will get the keys to my new home, in a neighborhood where I know nobody and know nothing of what to expect. I am struck by the realization that I will no longer be able to see some of my best friends on a whim, at the drop of a text.
An old friend confessed to me this weekend that he reads my blog, always amused at first (if not a little bit annoyed) that he has no idea where the hell I'm going. I wander, he says, take turns that seem to make no sense. Then he gets to the end, so he can see where I was going, and it makes sense, finally. I assured him it's the same for me; I have no idea where I'm going when I start, or what the point is, or whether there even is a point. Ahh -- could this blog of mine really be a metaphor for life, and not just the ramblings of a middle aged woman trying to find her way?
The best I can do going forward, I suppose, is let the story unfold.
I had no "plus one," and weddings can be daunting when you're flying solo. Or so I thought. Minus a plus one, I found myself plus two hundred or so, concerned about nobody's fun but my own. My feet hurt and my jeans are a bit snug, but it was worth it.
New Orleans is a hotbed of music and art and food and good fun, not to mention debauchery. And, like no other city, it doesn't sit by idly while it hosts your joy; it participates in it. Our buses left the wedding with a police escort -- a police escort! -- for the twenty minute drive back to the French Quarter. The police closed off a major street -- a major street! -- so that two hundred drunken revelers, led by a jazz band and our newlyweds, could march and whoop their way back to our hotel. Locals far less well-heeled than most of us cheered us along, shared in our celebration. I would consider getting married again, if only to experience that march -- the "second line" -- one more time. Okay, maybe I'll just watch the video.
I return tonight to what has been my home for five and a half years, and it will be jarring to see all my "things" packed away in boxes in a single room. Tomorrow I will get the keys to my new home, in a neighborhood where I know nobody and know nothing of what to expect. I am struck by the realization that I will no longer be able to see some of my best friends on a whim, at the drop of a text.
An old friend confessed to me this weekend that he reads my blog, always amused at first (if not a little bit annoyed) that he has no idea where the hell I'm going. I wander, he says, take turns that seem to make no sense. Then he gets to the end, so he can see where I was going, and it makes sense, finally. I assured him it's the same for me; I have no idea where I'm going when I start, or what the point is, or whether there even is a point. Ahh -- could this blog of mine really be a metaphor for life, and not just the ramblings of a middle aged woman trying to find her way?
The best I can do going forward, I suppose, is let the story unfold.
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