Couple of facts. A week ago we were in Fairbanks. It was 10 below zero. NOLA is balmy. I'm in a great bar, eating BBQ shrimp. "Do you peel it or eat the shell?" "You just eat it." Now, on a crust, I'm thinking the shell end is the best part. Roughage? THIS is roughage. The cab driver told me about his life after Katrina. We warmed to each other. As we neared the hotel, he asked if I'd been reborn in Jesus. Or reclaimed; some word. I don't flip-flop; true believers ask this question more often than you'd imagine. "No. I don't have a church." Didn't bother him at all. He said you can always ask Jesus. Jesus will always answer.
NEXT NIGHT: sampling a New Orleans native cocktail, Sazerac. Whiskey, bitters, splash of simple syrup. In the same general vicinity as a Manhattan. Worth a second, with my main: Gulf fish and shrimp in a sauce atop grits. The bar talk: crime, gentrification, and last night's big murder. "My car's been broken into five times this last year." The bartender. "It's pretty safe during the day, though."
After work, on the way to the car, Joann and I crossed the corner where the big murder happened. A few steps later a shouting match erupted between a man and a woman across the street. She was soft voiced, he was loud and staring at his cell. Outside a cancer center. "I don't have the training to intervene," I said. She said she didn't either. When we drove off a minute later, the same couple was laughing together. I don't know.