29 August 2004


I knew it would be a good weekend and I was right. Rain was expected, but it waited for us. We went on a real date. Walking around the French Quarter, I remember why I used to like it so much. We rode the streetcar, drank margaritas, ate shrimp burritos. You wouldn’t have guessed we lived here. Me with my camera and fancy ruffled skirt, oohing and ahhing over the fern-covered balconies, their wrought iron details, and the funny things people put out on them—an armored knight for instance, and a stuffed snowman. Setting the self-timer in front of Andrew Jackson, making sure St. Louis Cathedral is in the background. We walked through the local artists’ galleries. We looked at oil paintings that cost a quarter of what my house costs, and actually listened to sales pitches on them. I fell in love with a fairy-tale painting by a Russian woman. When I’m rich I will find it again. We bought sugarcane from the farmer’s market and pralines from the gift shop and organic donuts for the dog that looked nicer than the human treats. I thought I needed a vacation, but pretending was just as good.

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