That Perfect City

Maybe it's because my dad grew up there through his whole childhood and all the formative stuff, and he's one of my very favorite people.  Maybe it's because my grandparents lived there when I was a kid, and we'd hop in the station wagon to go visit them at 1336 New York Street (God, how do I remember that address?), with the terrazzo tile and the swimming pool and banana trees... and where I'd mail the cardboard backs of my dad's legal pads I'd drawn pictures on and made into makeshift postcards to my grandparents, and I'd get a return poem from my grandmother in the mail inspired by the postcard-drawing I'd sent each time (no doubt penned with a too-long-ashed cigarette hanging from her lips as she crafted the rhymes for me while wearing amazing cat eye glasses).  Maybe it's because my grandfather would cheerily answer his art business telephone "Ted Drell in Sunny New Orleans."  Maybe it's because he left me all his art supplies and furniture when he died.  Maybe it's because it's where I gulped down a terrible rum old fashioned with my grandfather after my grandmother's funeral at the mausoleum, where he cried to the point of shaking even though he'd cheated on her.  Maybe it's because I like the memory of hearing about old ladies my grandfather flirted with in his dotage who took him to the museum for outings, which, when I'd visit, he'd tell me about over french toast he'd make for me with special Ted butter (the kind the fat falls out of when you cook it).  Maybe it's because every time I went to New Orleans as a kid (from my small hometown a few hours away), I understood deeply and had imprinted on my psyche that "This is what a CITY is."  (I almost cried in a cab, overcome by that very specific feeling last week as we drove by so many buildings I recognized... and again now as I remember it all over again while I type this.)  Maybe it's all the old restored signs on all the businesses that seem to have been there forever... and they better never be replaced.  Maybe it's the puddle-ridden cobblestone streets coated with grime that makes the stone feel almost soft.  Maybe it's that Popeye's on Canal Street.  Maybe it's because it's the first place I knew where tattoos were okay, and even beautiful.  Maybe it's all the balconies and small shops filled with treasures and skulls (including the nutria skull I bought long ago, which they said was a beaver, but it's not).  Maybe it's because more often than not, dark and dirty is more beautiful than clean and too-perfect.  Maybe it's because my parents met, had their first date at Venezia's Pizza, and fell in love there.  Maybe it's because of all the road-trip-concerts I saw in high school in New Orleans, usually at UNO, and especially Lolapalooza... and even more especially the last Lolapalooza, when I lost my shoes and my friends and I piled in cars and slept at my Aunt Barbara's house in Metarie on every inch of her floor and any spare soft surface.  Maybe it's because of that high school art field trip where Rachel and I pulled some ridiculous shenanigans (I'll never tell) and almost missed the Bolton bus home, which we mightily grimaced and laughed about as we reminisced while we weaved our way through the artists and poets-for-hire in Jackson Square last weekend (24 years later).  Maybe it's because of biegnets and gumbo (even though as a small kid I'd complain about going to Cafe Du Monde with my family because I didn't like biegnets... let's just pretend that didn't happen).  Maybe it's because I got my nose pierced at Rings of Desire there back in the day when I wasn't supposed to.  Maybe it's the extra cherries they give you in your Hurricane at Pat O's if you smile when you ask.  Maybe it's all those spirited musicians on the street corners (including the electronica snake charmer sounding trio I saw last weekend).  Maybe it's all those trips to Mardi Gras during college (even though I was fully groped everywhere that counts by a complete stranger in the wall-to-wall mosh pit of people on Bourbon Street that one time).  And speaking of college, maybe it's because I almost accepted my offer to attend Tulane for undergrad but for the charms of Texas drawing me in so fully and away from my home state.  Maybe it's because I worked for a Fifth Circuit judge after law school in Lafayette and spent many days in hotels and eating at all the best restaurants in New Orleans while we were in town for court sittings at the gorgeous Court of Appeals building on Camp Street (seriously, those courtrooms are majestic).  Maybe it's the air that hangs heavy and makes my hair grow bigger by the minute (who cares?).  Maybe it's all the big love and reverie that just is that city.  Maybe it's because now I'm no longer a Fluevog shoe store virgin.  Maybe it's because rain feels right there.  Maybe it's all the things seen and unseen that hang in the air there and make it feel like I belong.  My body and blood knew last week that I was home.  When I was there, my body breathed more easily.  My tense upper traps felt like water instead of stone.  I rested more fully.  Was in much less pain.  Felt more beautiful.  Relaxed into my environment.  And I loved every single second as I let it just fill me up.