Walking to New Orleans

Despite my newly found calf muscles, I doubt that I’ll be doing that much walking.

It’s been over two years since I stood outside the Monteleone on Royal Street, listening to blues and realizing that I really, really had no clue what I was going to do with my life or my fear.

Pacing and talking with the Frazzle on the phone, watching the street musicians and drunkards stumble and tumble down the street like dragonflies–darting, dipping, and rising again.

“It’s just love,” the guy with the bad breath told me.

A lie, but a convenient one, and one I thought held the answer to everything.

Silly me.

Two years since I had a really crappy “American” breakfast with the Brits and Teh Tim. Two years since the carousel bar, sharing secrets and fears and realizing that I was very much like a certain chippy, despite all possible appearances. Only I wasn’t as confident; certainly not as hip.

But it’s been a long two years, and I’m on my way home again, back to the city where my spirit just lifts as I drive over the causeway. Like a long-lost lover, I worry: Will it be the same? Will I be home? Will we still be connected despite silence and distance? Will I remember where that kick ass seafood place is?

November 17, a day to remember, because I get the feeling I’m moving into something where papers and exams are irrelevant.

A day to remember because I’ll be, in less than 8 hours, be consummating an affair that’s lasted 14 years.

It’s past time, really.

And I’ll be sharing it with someone who has never even heard of Tool except through me.

I’ll probably scar her forever. I consider it practice for when I become a professor.


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